Ramble On
by geekery-pokery
Summary: AU: Sam and Dean are two familiars who become Bonded to Castiel and Gabriel, a pair of powerful witches who live together. Destiel, Sabriel.
1. Prologue

**A/N: remember like two months ago when 8x15 aired and i was like yeah i'm gonna write a witches au**  
**well here it is finally**  
**going to post the prologue and the first 3 chapters right away; after that, it proceeds at normal speed**  
**hope you enjoy :D**

_Prologue_

"Something's wrong. She never blocks me out like this."

Dean was unable to say anything to quell the trembling urgency in his brother's tone as they made their way for the door. He didn't know anything about the connection between a witch and a familiar other than what he'd heard from others who did; he didn't understand how this whole mental mind-meld thing worked. According to what Sam had told him, though, familiar and witch were constantly aware of each other's general mental frame of mind. "I thought you could always read her mind or something."

Sam shook his head, eyes trained ahead on the door. "When we first Bonded, before we really knew each other, sometimes she kept stuff from me, but she hasn't closed herself off like that in…"

He trailed off. They'd reached the door, which was open a few inches. The handle was hanging off its screws and there were splintered dents in the wood frame as though it had been beaten in with the butt of a shotgun.

"Jess," breathed Sam, eyes wide.

Dean's brain was in tactical war mode. While they were gone, someone had broken into Sam and Jess's house. The intruder's car was still in the drive, which meant he was still here, whoever he was. They should sneak in to conserve the element of surprise and arm themselves with whatever—

Too late. Sam had already slipped through the door, his gigantic frame vanishing into the darkness of the house and footsteps pounding down the hall. With a muttered curse, Dean followed, his instincts now thrumming with imminent danger.

Dean heard Sam's footsteps thundering up the stairs ahead of him and followed his brother blindly up the steps, stumbling in the dark. A thin line of light at the top showed that the master bedroom was occupied. Sam didn't even hesitate. He ran for the door, threw it open so fast that it banged against the wall, and stopped short with a look of horror.

Dean looked over Sam's shoulder to see a stranger holding a bottle engraved with black magic symbols and filled with an unidentifiable liquid. He was muttering a rapid incantation in Latin, beady eyes flicking up to the brothers as he spoke. In Sam and Jess's house, where witchcraft was a business, this wasn't such an oddity; however, both brothers easily recognized from the state of the bottle and the words being spoken that this spell in particular was used to kill witches. Sure enough, there was Jess, gagged and bound with iron shackles to a chair, her eyes round and terrified as tears streamed down her face. She was positioned directly between the stranger and the door as a shield against the two boys.

Dean made the connection immediately: whoever the stranger was, he was a hunter, and he had come to kill Jess.

Sam tensed and took a half-step towards the hunter, who fisted his hand in Jess's hair, jerking her head back. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut. Sam stopped with an expression akin to the one he'd made when he sprained his ankle two years ago and had to limp back to the car so they could get him to the hospital. Dean wanted to scream, _What are you doing? He's going to kill her anyway! _But he didn't want to be the one to make the first move, just in case there was a chance—any chance in Hell—that that hunter would let her go.

"Please…" There was as much agony in Sam's voice was there was in his face. "Please, don't…"

The hunter's face twisted a little into what he must've thought was a smile. "Sorry, kid, but your girl Jess here's a witch."

Dean knew he might just make things worse, but he couldn't help himself. "Look, pal, this ain't _The Crucible_ and you ain't John Hale, so why don't you shut the fuck up and let the girl go?"

The hunter's eyes—cruel and now slightly irritated—switched to Dean. "Why should I? And don't tell me she's some goody-two-shoes white magic healer. She's sold her soul to the Devil, same as any other blood-sacrificing demon-worshiper out there."

"No." Sam was shaking his head, pleading with his eyes. "No, she's not like that. She's never killed anyone, please—"

The hunter struck a match.

"No—no! JESS!" shouted Sam, starting forward.

Jess's eyes met Dean's, and he could see by the look in them exactly what she was trying to say: _Take Sam and go!_ That was why she'd blocked him out; she didn't want him to know what was happening because she didn't want him to get hurt, too.

Then the hunter dropped the match into the bottle and dumped its flaming contents over Jess's head. Where it touched her, smoke rose in a thick cloud, distorting her features, but even obscured by the mist it was obvious she was in pain. There was a piercing scream as fire seemed to flicker under her skin, burning her away inside-out. In a quick burst of flames, she was gone, leaving behind nothing but ash and silence.

Dean stared in shock. Not Jess. Of all the grimy low-life witches out there, why had it been Jess?

Sam snarled—literally snarled. He wasn't a man anymore but had transformed, taking the shape of the massive, shaggy brown dog he occasionally manifested as. He lunged for the hunter, but Dean grabbed him and hauled him back, because he'd just seen the flash of silver in the hunter's hand, just spotted the symbols on the jagged knife and recognized it. He'd heard rumors about it, rumors that said it could kill just about anything short of an angel. One stab was all it would take, and Sam would follow his witch into oblivion.

Sam's snarls turned into barks and he even tried snapping at Dean's hands to get free, but Dean refused to let go. The hunter watched them smugly but did nothing as Dean dragged Sam back by the scruff. Dean was almost tempted to just let the guy have it, but he couldn't, not with that knife in his hands. He wouldn't let Sam risk his life like that for the sake of vengeance.

"Sammy—Sam, come on, there's nothing you can do!" Dean's yell was nearly drowned out by Sam's wild, frenzied barking. He threw his weight against the dog's straining, putting all his effort into keeping the monstrous canine from taking another step. This was no easy task, of course, since the dog easily weighed over a hundred pounds and was fighting against Dean's grip as though his life depended on it. Sam dug his paws in, resisting every step as Dean dragged him down the stairs, but on that front, even gravity was against him. Dean managed to get Sam out the front door, but nearly lost his grip as Sam lunged back towards the house with renewed vigor. Foam was flinging from his jaws now, his eyes white crescents in the dark. His normally deep, booming woofs had escalated to frantic baying, high-pitched and unrelenting and sure to wake the dead.

"Sam, listen to me, she's gone!" Dean's voice cracked unexpectedly. It hurt like hell to say it because he knew it was the last thing either of them wanted to hear, but he couldn't let Sam run back into that house. The words didn't seem to affect Sam in the slightest. He seemed dead-set on running back in there and giving that hunter a taste of his fangs, so focused on the red-hot _need_ to avenge Jess that nothing else could get through to him. Dean was succeeding, for now, in pulling Sam away, but it was a slow struggle, and his arms were already burning from the effort.

There was a sudden flare in the dark that finally caused both dog and man to fall silent. Dean was so shocked for a moment that his grip on Sam fell slack, but Sam, apparently similarly affected, stood stock-still, unaware of his renewed freedom. The house had caught fire—or been set on fire, Dean suspected, since it seemed an unlikely coincidence—and the flames were spreading quickly. Within a minute the entire first floor was engulfed in heat.

The silence roared in Dean's ears in the absence of Sam's barking, and the crackling flames did nothing to fill it. He couldn't believe what he'd just seen. This kind of thing happened every once in a while to the more audacious witches—hunters turned up out of nowhere, and bam, one spell and that was it, kaput. But _Jess_, of all people—sweet, cookie-baking, dog-loving Jess—why her?

He was so lost for a moment that he didn't notice Sam's absence until the dog had torn straight through the door, apparently undaunted by the fact that the entire place felt like an oven. Just standing within five feet of the house, Dean felt like a marshmallow on a stick—and he didn't even have a fur coat. Nevertheless, he threw his jacket to the ground and ducked in after Sam, trying to ignore the fact that it would be healthier for his lungs to put his mouth over an exhaust pipe. He could've sworn that the flames were bending towards him, lapping hungrily for his skin.

He'd never been to Hell—and personally hoped he never would—but he imagined if he did, it would look a lot like this. The flames flared dully through a screen of cloudy gray. The smoke was in his mouth, his nose, inside of his lungs, scratching at his throat and mouth and suffocating him. Even the sound was smothering; the snapping and whooshing filled his ears so that he couldn't even hear his own voice calling out, much less any noise Sam might've been making. Everything around him was being slowly devoured by the fire, burnt to crispy black husks that curled into embers. Pictures, curtains, wallpaper, furniture. An entire lifetime, gone. This had been Sam's home—hell, even Dean could call it a temporary nesting place of sorts. Dean had always kind of secretly envied Sam for his ability to settle down like this, and he'd missed the days when it was just the two of them, but he'd never wanted this. Jess was a good chick—and Sam had loved her.

He found the dog at the foot of the stairs, running from side to side trying to find a way past the creaking, flaming rafters that had fallen in his path. Dean couldn't hear him barking, but he could see his mouth moving in rapid-fire, white flashes of teeth in the dark. He kept shoving his nose into small gaps and yelping when it came away singed.

Dean knew there was no possibility of them getting past, even if Jess was still alive somehow. And the hunter—well, if he'd set the fire, then he was probably long gone. Even now, the house was showing signs of imminent collapse. They had to get out as soon as possible, but he knew there was no way in hell Sam was gonna leave willingly. Hell, he'd burn his nose to a nub before giving up on Jess.

As soon as Dean reached the dog—which was, by now, practically howling—he swooped down, wrapping strong arms around the canine and hauling him up in his arms. Sam's immense weight made this an extremely difficult feat, which was no further aided by his constant struggling and wriggling as Dean slowly, excruciatingly, stumbled his way back through the house.

The front door felt like an impossibly long distance away. Dean was beginning to think the smoke would choke him before he reached it. His arms were shaking and he almost dropped Sam a few times as the dog twisted violently in his grip. Finally, coughing, he emerged into fresh air, taking great gasping gulps of the cold breeze.

Two steps into the grass and there was a sound like lightning touching down right behind him. A split-second later and a giant fist seemed to slam into him, knocking him forward with such force that he simply lay sprawled in the grass for a minute, stunned, his head spinning and his ears ringing. Every sound seemed suddenly distant and compressed, as though he was wearing earplugs.

He lifted his head and turned, trying to ignore the throbbing nausea that action produced, and his eyes struggled to focus on the house—or what was left of it. It took him a moment to realize that a good portion of the building had just exploded, leaving nothing but the splintered remains of the frame and the last dust of falling debris.

_Sam_. He looked around to see his brother, still four-legged, lying on his side in the dirt. The explosion seemed to have stunned him. He stirred weakly as Dean wrapped burnt arms around his furry frame and dragged him away, but made no attempt to resist. The keening whines in his throat shifted abruptly to the sound of sobbing as Sam's form became suddenly heavier, the fur under Dean's fingers melting into skin and fabric. Sam, his brother, all six-foot-five of him, was a human again and was as limp in Dean's arms as a wet rag—a shivering, whimpering wet rag that was making hoarse noises like a wounded animal.

They were a sufficient enough distance away that Dean gave up trying to pull him farther and simply dropped down, drawing his brother into his arms. He was tired and aching and he was pretty sure his arms had been cut with glass from the window, but he refused to show any sign of weakness. Sam needed him now more than any other time in his life, needed him to be the reassuring older brother.

Sam gave himself to his grief, his tears spreading a wet patch across Dean's shirt like blood from a wound. The sounds of his misery, raw and broken, grated on Dean's ears. He tucked his head into Sam's hair, hoping his brother wouldn't notice the tears streaming down his face, too. He was crying just as much for Jess as he was for Sam's loss. Dean had never been Bonded to a witch, but he'd heard plenty about it from other familiars, how they form an immovable partnership. Sam had even told Dean once how he and Jess would die for each other. For Sam to lose her must've been like losing half of his soul.

He tried to get his grief under control, shut out the memories of her that were threatening to overwhelm him. The first dinner they'd all had together, the various spells they'd worked, all the nights he'd spent watching old movies on their TV and munching freshly-baked cookies—he packed it away, forgot about it for now. _He needs me to be strong_, Dean kept telling himself. Sam was clinging to him and Dean was clinging back just as tightly, feeling guilty for being so grateful that Sam, at least, had been spared.

They sat there like that for Dean didn't know how long, Sam's sobs wracking his whole frame, Dean encompassing him in his arms and holding him as closely as he could. He had no way of telling time, but he guessed it was at least twenty minutes before Sam finally extracted himself from his older brother's arms, quivering like a boy whose puppy had run away.

Despite Sam's obvious fragility, it was a pair of determined, hatred-filled eyes that met Dean's, and he could guess what was about to be said before it was spoken: "I'm going to track down that hunter, Dean. I'm going to track him down and rip out his throat myself." Sam's voice was unsteady and cracked in several places, but there was raw anger underneath that kindled a pleasant sort of bloodlust in Dean's gut.

Dean nodded grimly. "We'll find that son of a bitch and we'll give him hell."


	2. Chapter 1

"Dude, no, we're not going in there, the place looks like a meet-up for a hippie convention."

"It's no different from any other white magic shop we've seen. Come on, you're just pissed because we skipped that diner this morning."

"Yeah, can you remind me why we did that again? 'Cause you said yourself those pancakes smelled fuckin' awesome."

"I told you, Dean, we're low on money and we've gotta watch what we spend. Living on our own hustling pool and pick-pocketing isn't exactly a luxury lifestyle."

While that much was the truth, it wasn't the whole truth, and Sam knew it. Ever since they'd crossed over state lines, he'd felt a slight pull towards this town—it was like there was something here that he needed to do, only he couldn't remember what. Here, in front of this shop—called "The Mystery Spot"—it seemed to resonate even stronger than before. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten such a sensation; he'd felt it once before, five years ago, shortly before he met Jess. The slight tug in his brain had led him straight to her.

"Fine. But we're stopping at a burger joint tonight, okay? I need something with bacon."

Sam couldn't exactly say why he was keeping it from Dean this time—maybe because Dean had so far made no mention of getting a similar impression from this place, or anywhere else for that matter. Dean was a bit of an oddball in that regard; most familiars found and Bonded with a witch counterpart before they turned twenty-five, but Dean was pushing into his thirties now and had so far experienced no such thing. Neither of them ever made any mention of this fact, but Dean seemed constantly sensitive to the issue. He had been alone and Unbonded for so long that Sam was beginning to think he resented the idea entirely.

Dean slowed, turning suspicious eyes on Sam. "Why do you wanna go in there, anyway? It's not like we need anything."

Sam shrugged, composing his face into what he hoped was an unassuming expression. "Just, you know, to catch up on news… and stuff."

Dean grunted. He looked unconvinced, but he didn't press the matter as they pushed through the door of the cramped, dimly-lit shop. A bell above them jingled jauntily to announce their arrival, and the sound seemed to echo uncomfortably in the otherwise empty room. The cluttered place was filled with merchandise, everything from fake voodoo to herbal remedies. Labeled bags of varying dusts lined the shelves; dream-catchers and wind chimes hung from the ceiling, silent in the absent breeze; glittering crystals dangled from a display rack; spell books filled shelves on the right. In the back by the cash register was an entire wall covered in glass vials filled with liquids of every color and consistency imaginable. Some of them were brand new while others looked downright archaic. It seemed clever at first to hide genuine artifacts among droves of shams, but Sam had to wonder how many new-age customers had unintentionally walked away with real hoodoo.

"Well, this is a first," called a sly voice from the back. "You know, usually I can tell straight off, but I can't figure out if you boys are brothers or gay for each other." Sam glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye; his brother looked a strange mixture of self-conscious and extremely pissed.

They had to step closer to get a better look at who was speaking. It was the man running the cash register, apparently the only employee in the place, and emanating the telltale aura of power that familiars could sense in nearby witches. The first thing Sam noticed about his physical aspect was that he was short—hilariously short. Like, at least a foot shorter than Sam. What he lacked in height, however, he seemed to make up for in boldness; he was practically radiating confidence, which only seemed to make his stature more entertaining. Everything from his pointed features to his mischievously quirked eyebrows to his curling smirk of a smile spoke of audacity and a certain level of rascality that Sam knew would rub Dean the wrong way.

"We're brothers," said Sam in a sulky voice, since Dean appeared momentarily incapable of speech.

The other man's grin widened at their apparent misery. He really seemed to be enjoying himself. "I've never seen you two kiddos around here. Who're your masters?"

Sam winced inwardly at the term; he knew Dean hated it. To most familiars, it was as common a term as "friend" or "sibling," but in Dean's eyes, it was an embarrassment. "Uh, we don't—"

"We're our own 'masters,' pal," snapped Dean, true to form.

This appeared to amuse the man, whose smile seemed to take on a knowing quality as he regarded Dean. "Unbonded familiars, huh? Even better." His gaze flicked to Sam and seemed to linger, brown eyes looking up and down Sam's form in a mildly interested way that made Sam feel self-conscious. He distracted himself by glancing down at the man's nametag, which read GABRIEL.

Sam's eyes trailed back up to Gabriel's face when he realized the niggling sensation that had led him here was gone. It was obvious that he was _supposed_ to be here. Whoever this Gabriel guy was, he was what Sam's sixth sense had been leading towards. Gabriel was meant to be his other half, if he chose to make it so.

Now he was fascinated, as he was the day he first met Jess. Whatever whim or instinct or hand of destiny that brought him here had chosen this man to be a potentially lifelong companion. Sam felt a little awkward making this realization while staring at a _guy_, considering the first and only witch he'd ever Bonded with had become his lover; but he reminded himself that his relationship with Jess was a rarity. Most familiars and their witches shared a completely platonic friendship. And Gabriel… well, he wasn't the type for Sam to pick out initially as a good friend—in fact, he didn't seem like the type of person Sam would associate with at all, but that was what intrigued him more than anything else.

He spotted Dean out of the corner of his eye, looking back and forth between them with an expression of disbelief. Apparently reading too much into what Sam considered was nothing more than a curious examination, he put a hand up, using the gesture to insert himself into the exchange. "Hey, shorty, save the bedroom eyes for later, okay? We didn't come in here lookin' for a good time."

Gabriel's cocky grin twisted even further as he turned and regarded Dean instead, his expression nothing short of teasing. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were the jealous type."

Dean bristled, leading Sam to intervene, "Guys, stop. Look, we're just passing through and came in here to get the low-down, alright?"

Gabriel's smile faded slightly, and Sam could've sworn he looked a little disappointed. He began to unwrap a lollipop that seemed to have materialized in his hand as he said, "Well, there've been rumors going around that there's a pair of hunters nearby who're out to torch some witches. Last I heard, they were on the other side of the state, but that could've changed in the past day or two, so watch your backs." He stuck the candy in his mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. "Otherwise, not much happening here."

"Great, thanks," said Dean in a thoroughly ungrateful tone. He turned to leave. Sam hesitated; he wanted to stick around and talk to Gabriel more, but Dean tugged impatiently on his sleeve and he reluctantly followed after.

Dean's face had settled into the expression Sam corresponded with _pissed_ and _bitchy_. "The hell was that guy's deal, anyway?" He cast a glance over his shoulder at the shop as they left it behind. "The dude looked like he was stripping you in his brain."

"He did not," Sam protested, but he fell silent at Dean's skeptical look. His heart sank as the feeling of unfinished business seemed to regrow with every step.

Dean glanced over his shoulder again, but this time his gaze remained trained for a moment on the second floor of the complex, where Sam guessed was Gabriel's living space. Dean paused for a moment in his steps as though caught in indecision, but a moment later the confliction in his demeanor was gone. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he muttered, fixing Sam with a stern gaze.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're looking for a place to settle down. Move in, sacrifice a few cats, start a vegetable garden, maybe pop out a few weird-ass dog-witch-kids… 'Course, it's a little hard to do that last one with your fun-size loverboy back there—"

"Dean, come on." Sam had known this was coming. Dean didn't mind them stopping to visit witches in the area, but ever since they'd succeeded in avenging Jess he'd been weirdly protective of Sam, refusing to let him spend too much time with Unbonded witches. Sometimes he seemed to honestly believe Sam would abandon Dean to the side of the road for a complete stranger. It drove Sam nuts. "Why do you have to act like this every time I talk to another witch? You're like a jealous girlfriend."

Dean jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You're telling me you actually _want_ to be his little bitch?"

"You know that's not how it works."

"Yeah, whatever. You keep saying that, but you end up with that guy, he's gonna be putting you in collars and making you call him 'master' before you even know what's happening."

Sam's patience dipped. Dean's exaggerations could really get out of hand. "Look, would you just drop it?"

They both fell into a disgruntled silence as they climbed back into the Impala.

-x-

_Sam slammed down his fifteenth empty shot glass, the action getting him a look from the bartender that might've been concerned or might've been annoyed. He couldn't tell at this point and he didn't really give a shit one way or the other. "Another," he growled, the syllables slurred together. A moment later, a sixteenth shot of whiskey materialized in front of him and he glared at it for a moment before downing it._

_It was three in the morning. Dean was asleep back at the hotel room they'd rented for the next few days. As much as Sam wanted to track down that goddamn hunter, he couldn't let himself leave town before the funeral, whenever that would be. He had to pay his respects to Jess._

_The chasm was gaping. Only four hours prior, Jess had filled it, her every emotion washing over him like waves tossed over the sand. Right before she'd died, she'd re-opened herself to him, just enough to feel her love for him a moment before the fiery blast of pain had erased her soul from existence and left him with a memory of her death as vivid as if he'd taken her place. She hadn't just died; she'd been ripped out of him, leaving behind a raw, searing wound bleeding love and memory. No amount of alcohol, it seemed, would replace her presence, but he was almost drunk enough to pretend she was never there in the first place._

"_Hey, pal, you sure you should be drinkin' so much?"_

_It was a guy sitting a few seats down the bar. Sam didn't even look at him. "Leave me alone."_

"_Listen, I get it, you're depressed, but come on, you shouldn't—"_

"_Just shut the fuck up!" He was in no mood to listen to anyone preach to him about taking care of himself. He didn't doubt he'd regret the headache he was facing the next morning, but for now, he didn't give a rat's ass about anything._

_Yelling at the stranger had felt satisfying—almost satisfying enough to warrant more—but his lethargy and apathy made it impossible to dig up the motivation to raise his voice again. He almost hoped the guy would yell back, just so he'd have an excuse, but the stranger fell silent._

_What was he even supposed to do with his life now? Besides the drive to kill the son of a bitch responsible for Jess's death, he had nothing to get him up the next morning, or any of the mornings after that. There would be no more warmth or affection to reach him on the other side of their link whenever he needed it. There would be no one left to care for besides Dean, who was perfectly capable of caring for himself and more. There would be no more poultices to mix, no more spells to recite, no more kisses or hugs or soft eyes or heat-filled nights or cozy snuggling with a shitty movie. His future was gone, burned away like the fire that had ravaged his home._

_He got to nineteen shots before slapping down a few bills and staggering for the door. The bartender had taken his keys after the fifth and had offered to call a cab, but he refused. He didn't know why. Maybe it was just because he didn't want to go back to that motel room yet, didn't want to get any closer to facing the next morning. Instead, he took off at a stumbling walk down the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched and his legs working only half as well as they were supposed to. He was miserable and disgusting and so stricken with grief that he was in physical pain. His chest was tight and it was hard to breathe and his eyes couldn't focus on anything more than five feet away._

_Just as he'd hoped, the whiskey cast a fog over the black gap in his mind just thick enough that he couldn't make out how far or wide it was. It was there, but possible to ignore, so he dwelled in the other half of his mind, feeling hollow and unbalanced by what now felt like a space too large for only him. Without Jess closing the gap, he felt like he would tumble out of the hole in his mind and drift away on the wind, never to return. How could he have ever survived before with no one else there? How could he have lived properly before Jess and how could he ever manage it again?_

_He didn't know where he was going; in fact, by the time he stopped to wonder, he wasn't even sure if he was still in the same city. Nothing looked familiar—but then, it was late at night and he was ridiculously drunk. He could be standing in his own house (if it wasn't reduced to ash) and nothing would look familiar._

_Time was a mystery to him, too. It could be three in the morning; it could be five. All he knew was that the sick feeling in his stomach was building and his brain felt too fuzzy to be remotely healthy. The mist over the cliff face had grown and spread until he couldn't see anything through it, couldn't formulate any thoughts more than three feet in front of him._

_The whiskey finally caught up to him behind a local strip club, and he interrupted two people making out against the wall by puking up his stomach contents onto the ground with a repulsive splattering sound. He managed to walk until he was alone again before his exhaustion became too much and he passed out on something he could only assume was a bench._

-x-

Sam watched Dean's chest rise and fall, listened to the quiet snores that seemed to fill the otherwise silent room. Dean had wanted to move on, but Sam had managed to convince him to inhabit a motel room for the night, arguing that they'd been driving nonstop for the past week. Dean had relented surprisingly quickly, but Sam attributed that to fatigue. The real reason he wanted to stay, however, was about five and a half feet tall and was probably currently closing up shop.

His restless indecision made it impossible to sleep, so for the past hour he'd simply been sitting on the edge of the bed, tense and conflicted. The tug was still there, directing him back to The Mystery Spot, where he'd find Gabriel. It was completely his choice, of course—he and Dean could drive away tomorrow and never look back, and once they'd put about a hundred miles or so between themselves and this place, the feeling would fade. Gabriel would be none the wiser and they could move on with their lives. Sam knew because it had happened before, not just to other familiars but to him as well. Only a couple years ago they'd driven through California and Sam had felt it, pulling him towards San Francisco. But that time he'd ignored it—he'd been terrified of it. He couldn't handle it then, not so soon after Jess, and his desire to keep on the trail of her killer overwhelmed any thought of giving up the chase.

But now…

He wasn't sure what he thought about Gabriel yet. The guy seemed decent enough, though Sam honestly had no idea what kind of witch he was, and his innocence on any level was dubious. He and Dean generally tried to avoid the ones that used their powers to harm others, and Gabriel's first impression hadn't exactly refuted the possibility that he was one such witch. Still, Sam wanted to go back there, and not just because of the pull in his mind. He wanted to learn more about Gabriel, about what he was like and whether or not Sam would want to be Bonded to him, because at this point he wasn't opposed to settling down like Dean said. He'd chased down and destroyed Jess's killer, just as he'd vowed to, and he was ready to stop running his feet ragged. He was getting tired of waking up in a different city every morning, of conning people out of money for meals and watching late-night TV until two. Most of all, he was tired of living more of his life as an animal than as a human being.

And he trusted his instincts when it came to this, whatever was guiding them. It was the same intuition that had led him to Jess, and he'd loved her more than anything in his life. He doubted he'd feel the same kind of love for this guy Gabriel if he did decide to Bond with him, but he didn't distrust their potential ability to operate as a team. All familiars and their witches, whether romantically engaged or not, possessed a certain functionality together that couldn't be replicated, and Sam believed his involvement with Gabriel would be no different, however unlikely the man seemed.

The only problem was Dean. His brother had already gotten off on the wrong foot with Gabriel, which didn't help Sam's chances of convincing him to let them Bond. Anyway, this wasn't something he should really decide on his own, especially after spending so much time travelling alone with Dean. It would be a hugely drastic change to their lifestyle. They'd need at least a couple weeks to discuss and adjust to the idea, and even then, there was very little chance that Dean would assent to such a decision.

And yet the insistent pull was ever-present, making it difficult to even think about sleeping through the night. It was clear to Sam that Dean felt no such attachment to anywhere in or around this town, which worried him. Was Dean meant to go on and find someone on the other side of the country, or was he forever doomed to live off of Sam, with no real home? Sam didn't particularly like either option, especially the second one—not out of any desire to be rid of Dean, but because he didn't want to face the possibility that Dean may never experience the same sense of belonging he'd felt when he was with Jess. He wanted Dean to be happy, because he couldn't think of anyone who deserved a good life—and a good _home_—more than his brother.

He supposed he could just stay with Dean until his brother found a witch of his own, and return here after—but who knows how long that would take? Gabriel could be gone by then, or dead, or Bonded to someone else. Then of course, there was the possibility that Dean may never Bond with anyone, even if he stumbles across someone eligible. And the curiosity was killing Sam. There were so many possibilities with Gabriel—who was he? What did he do with his powers? How long ago did he get them? Had he ever Bonded with a familiar before? What was his lifestyle like?

Unable to sit still, Sam rose from the bed and paced back and forth at its foot. How could he persuade Dean to let this happen?

He froze in his steps as a sly, almost Gabriel-esque voice in his head muttered, _It's not Dean's choice, you know._

It was right, of course. Dean wasn't in charge of him. Yeah, he'd feel pretty bad for turning back on Dean's wishes, especially after everything Dean had done for him, but this was Sam's decision after all. If he wanted to make a home here with Gabriel, then he would. It was his life; he could do with it what he liked, with or without his brother's permission. That was how most people would see it, anyway.

…So why did it feel so wrong?

He shook off his worry. _I'll just visit Gabriel, see what he's like,_ he concluded. _If I decide to take things a step further, then I'll talk to Dean about it._ It was with this compromise in mind that he wrote a note for Dean to say where he was and set off for the shop.

-x-

Sam found himself hesitating again as the Impala idled in front of the little shop that had been bright and cheery only hours earlier. Now that the lights were off, the darkness seemed to invade it, transforming it from friendly magic shop to jagged wasteland. Even from twenty feet away, the shadows cast by the strange curios seemed to bare their fangs at him. It was clearly closed, but a single window on the second floor made itself known by the yellow light it was emanating.

He turned off the car and reached out to open the door, but his hand froze on the lever, again uncertain of whether or not he really wanted to do this. He abruptly felt as though he would be betraying Jess by doing this, as though a second Bond would scorn her memory. Shaking his head, he cast aside the notion as he opened the door and climbed out of it; she would want him to be happy, to settle down. He'd spent enough years on the road.

He pressed the buzzer by the back door that he assumed would lead upstairs, suddenly feeling nervous. It was, he noted, rather late at night, and this factor would only be the more outstanding if Gabriel didn't remember him.

The door opened and the very man in question looked up with a wary expression that quickly melted into the same mischievous grin he'd treated Sam to earlier. He was wearing a white undershirt, a pair of boxer shorts, and a slightly mussed hair style that gave Sam the impression he'd woken the guy up, but Gabriel appeared happy to see him nonetheless. "I thought I'd be seeing one of you two again." He glanced around Sam, as if checking to make sure they were alone, before flicking his gaze back up to Sam's face. "Timing's a little on the creepy side, but I'm glad it's you and not the short one. He was bossy."

Sam knew he should introduce himself or at least say why he was there first, but he couldn't help himself: "You're calling _Dean_ 'the short one'? How tall are you, like, five-six?"

"Yeah, well, compared to you, we're all from the Lollipop Guild, aren't we? You're like a ripped moose." He poked Sam in the shoulder, as if proving his point. "Come on upstairs, Bullwinkle, I'll grab you a beer." Gabriel set off sauntering back up the stairs behind him and Sam followed, hands in his pockets. He would be enjoying the guy's easygoing temperament if he wasn't so thrown off by it. "So what's your name, anyway?"

"Uh, Sam. Sam Winchester."

Gabriel cast him a cocked eyebrow over his shoulder at the hesitation, but let it slide without remark as he reached the second level. Sam trailed after him as he stepped inside. "Well, Sam Winchester, I think it's pretty obvious to me why you came back—so what are you waiting for? No faith in destiny?" His last remark wasn't so much accusatory as it was contemptuous, uttered with a dry smirk.

"Actually, it's more just… I want to talk first. Get to know you better, I guess." _Why did I say that? That sounds stupidly cheesy._

"Hi, I'm Gabriel, I'm a Sagittarius, and I enjoy long walks on the beach and sacrificing things to Satan—"

Sam laughed. "Christ, sorry, that sounded like the start of a bad blind date—I just meant—"

Gabriel laughed. "Yeah, I know what you meant, kiddo."

Sam stepped further inside, looking around the place. Like the store below them, it was small, dark, and cluttered, though more with garbage than with merchandise. The sitting room was composed of a leather sofa, a couple dilapidated chairs, a coffee table covered in candy wrappers and empty glasses, and a square, old-fashioned TV that needed a good dusting. It was connected to the kitchen, which looked sadly underused despite the mountain of dirty dishes in and around the sink. A hallway on the opposite hall was lined with doors, one of which was closed, the light outlining its frame being the same one Sam had seen shining over the street below. There were tiny, subtle signs of Gabriel's secret life, only a few of which Sam noticed: a deck of stained tarot cards on the coffee table, a couple dried herbs hanging in the kitchen, and an occult spell book lying open on the kitchen. Sam was already itching to clean the place up, cook a healthy meal, and let some light through the curtained windows.

Momentarily distracted by the light shining under the crack of what Sam guessed to be a bedroom door, he asked, "You got a roommate?"

Gabriel glanced in the direction Sam indicated. "Yeah, that's Castiel. Keeps to himself most of the time."

Sam looked again to the closed door, noticing the slight similarity in their names. He seemed to recall hearing the name "Castiel" in some kind of mythological book he read through once. "Is he your brother?"

"Yeah, you could say that." He sounded darkly amused, which gave Sam the sense that there were many things about the subject that Gabriel wasn't telling him. "Catch." Sam looked up just in time to catch the beer bottle Gabriel tossed to him from the fridge. Resisting the urge to pick up the wrappers from the table, Sam made himself comfortable as he took a seat on the sofa. He opened the bottle with a snap and a hiss and took a swig as Gabriel flopped down in one of the chairs.

"So, Sasquatch." Evidently he wasn't going to stop making jokes about Sam's height any time soon. "What do you wanna know?"

Sam let out a thoughtful sigh that puffed his cheeks. This was so radically different from his first encounter with Jess that it felt unbelievably surreal. Sam had been on her trail for only a day, but he'd known absolutely nothing about what was guiding him. Naturally he'd been surprised to be led into a bar where he found a group of young women, most of them drunk, laughing and just having a fun night out—and in the middle of them all was Jess. He'd known it was her he was looking for because her smile had looked the brightest, her eyes the most vibrant, her laugh the most musical. And of course he hadn't really known what he was doing at the time or what it all meant, so he'd just walked straight up to her, as he'd felt he must, and brushed their hands together. That was all it had taken, was a single touch; then they were Bonded, just like that.

…Well, not really. There had been a bit of a commotion, since the process had been incredibly confusing and disorienting for the both of them, and having to go through it inside of a noisy bar in the midst of a gaggle of loud women had only made it more so. But once they'd gotten themselves sorted, she'd been able to drive Sam back to her place and figure out what the fuck had just happened. He remembered how pissed she'd been because he didn't think he'd ever heard a person yell so loudly, and he'd never heard anyone scream that way since. Sam hadn't fully anticipated the impact of what he'd done, nor the fact that none of her friends in the bar knew that she practiced witchcraft, nor even the possibility that perhaps Jess wouldn't want him. And for a time, she convinced herself—and Sam—that she didn't. But after four maddening days of Sam trying to resist the urge to walk back up to her door, she'd sought him out and they made things right.

That was part of the reason why he was taking such care to consider Gabriel's opinion in all of this, too. He hadn't asked for Sam, just as Jess hadn't. It was pretty clear already, though, that Gabriel wouldn't mind having a companion, even one he barely knew.

"Jeez, I don't even know where to… Uh, I guess I could start with who the hell are you?" Gabriel's eyebrows drew astonishingly close to his hairline. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like—I mean, I know I'm the one who just showed up out of nowhere, but I honestly don't know anything about you other than that you run a witchcraft shop and," he couldn't help a chuckle, "you're, like, a foot shorter than me."

"No, no, no, you've got it all wrong. See, I am what you'd call a _normal-sized _human being_._ You're just gigantic."

Sam laughed and looked down in a preoccupied sort of way. When Gabriel added nothing more, he sobered up and prompted, "But, seriously. Who are you?"

Gabriel's eyes flicked away, gazing thoughtfully down at his beer bottle. "Here's the way I see it, kiddo. I like you. For now, that's all I need to know. But I'm not gonna sit here and spill my can of worms just to see if it gets your approval." Sam hadn't meant it like that, but he felt marginally less guilty for coming off that way because of the lighthearted tone Gabriel used and the expression he made that looked like the facial equivalent of a shrug. The shorter man leaned forward, stretching out his hand invitingly towards Sam. "So we can either do this thing or you can march your ass back to your wise guy brother and get a move on."

Sam's eyes focused on Gabriel's unmarked hand, the fingers half-outstretched as though reaching. Then he glanced down at the back of his own hand, where the faded pink burn lay slightly raised from his skin, the only evidence left that he and Jess had ever shared a Bond. There were a myriad of reasons to turn back now, to simply say no and leave. But something held him fast, kept him anchored to his seat.

Finally, against his niggling doubts, Sam leaned forward, pressing the back of his unmarked hand against the back of Gabriel's.

-x-

"_Hey, buddy, wake up."_

_Sam woke to feel something nudging insistently at his arm. A split-second later, the weight of a headache crushed against his head, and the taste of bile and alcohol coated his tongue. He groaned. His entire skull ached, and everything inside it felt like it had spent a few minutes in a blender. What was he laying on? How had he gotten here? Despite the shade thrown over him by what must've been a tree, the daylight still looked unreasonably bright, and he clenched his eyes shut against it as red blotches bloomed across the backs of his eyelids._

"_Come on, now. I know you've had a rough night, but you can't sleep here."_

_Sam turned his head, for the moment ignoring the voice as he tried to figure out where he was. _Park bench._ He could see a fountain glittering cheerfully not too far away and hear birds chirping. He even imagined he saw an old woman cast him a furtive glance as she shuffled on by._

_The rest of the scene was interrupted by a pair of knees that somehow managed to look stern despite only being adorned with a pair of clean black slacks. Above the knees, he spotted a belt which sported a gun holster, a walkie-talkie, and a few other gadgets he didn't care to identify. It was obvious, however, before he even raised his gaze that the owner of said things—and probably the voice as well—was a police officer._

"_Fuck off," he muttered, closing his eyes again. It was his first morning without Jess. His first morning waking up without her by his side. He wanted to sleep until he could feel her again, until the warmth of the sun transformed itself into the embrace of her soft arms._

"_Hey!" The word was much louder now, having been yelled in his ear, and he recoiled as his head throbbed again. "I'm gonna give you ten seconds to get out of here, or else I'm gonna have to cuff you, understand?"_

_Sam was half a whim away from just waiting there to see what would happen, but even in this state he had to admit a trip to the police station was the last thing either he or Dean needed. He took a deep breath and turned reluctantly on his side, feeling as though his brain was sloshing around in liquid form as he pushed himself into a sitting position. The officer waited impatiently as Sam staggered to his feet and set off, away from the park. Where the hell was he, anyway?_

_He suddenly found himself at the corner of an intersection he didn't recognize when something in his pocket began to vibrate. He looked down at his hip in confusion before realizing what it must be: his phone._

"_Sammy, where the fuck are you?!"_

Dean._ Of course. "Dean, I—" He coughed; his voice was rough and barely audible. "I don't know. I'm on…" He squinted across the road at the street signs, "uh, Fillip and Little Creek. There's a Biggerson's down the road."_

_Silence on the other end. "I'll be there soon. You stay right there, you hear me, Sammy?"_

-x-

A bolt of energy exploded from where their hands made contact, electricity running all the way up Sam's arm. The jagged seam left in Sam's mind by Jess's absence had begun to heal and mesh back together over the years, but in that single touch it was torn back open, with the edges of a new mind joining to it. The feeling was both painful and exhilarating, filling Sam with joy at the familiarity of it and euphoria naturally induced by the process, but burning white-hot all the same. Gabriel wasn't just attached to him but branded into him. They were two pieces of metal that had been welded into one, first melted by heat until they pooled together, then strengthened by the Bond that was added to them.

Gabriel's essence washed over him so suddenly that he forgot who he was for a moment. He lost himself in the witch, forgetting that they were two different people, forgetting that he used to be Sam Winchester, a familiar. What started out as an undercurrent of emotional response and vague impressions of darting thoughts became vivid and sharp as though falling into focus. Gabriel's memories were off-limits at the moment, but his thought patterns, his instincts, everything from his wit and sense of humor to his cravings and opinions, were now Sam's. He could see himself through Gabriel's eyes, his face a mask of shock and barely-contained excitement.

They commingled so deeply that, just as with Jess, Sam was convinced they spent several seconds as a single mind. There were no independent thoughts, no errant emotions or separate sensations; he was neither himself nor Gabriel, but rather something new, something born from the two of them.

Slowly, ever so slowly, they began to peel apart, gradually regaining their individuality despite their mental proximity. Beginning to separate, though still sandwiched together, their thoughts stretched and snapped as Sam found himself again amidst the clinging cobwebs of Gabriel. He found he was breathing sharply, his pulse hammering; Gabriel was similarly affected, though their hands were still touching.

Eventually Sam became aware of a hot, stinging feeling emanating from where their skin had made contact. His entire arm was tingling. He wanted to pull away and examine it, and the moment he thought that, Gabriel seemed to sense it; they both drew apart at once in mutual, wordless agreement to tend to the burn marks that now reddened the backs of their hands.

Gabriel was unaccustomed to the feeling. Sam could sense it. But the witch was also in wonderment, his presence filling Sam, trying to experience every facet of this new thing between them. That's not to say that Sam wasn't—he was buried in Gabriel, feeling the man's emotions raining on him like a cold shower after a hot day in the sun.

"You've been through this before," muttered Gabriel. Out loud, it was an inference, a realization; but in his mind, Sam could hear the echo of a questioning note.

It took Sam a moment to extract himself enough to find his voice, though Gabriel knew the answer running through their joined minds before he spoke: "Yeah." Then, because he saw no reason to keep it to himself, he added, "Her name was Jess."

Gabriel didn't ask any more questions, and Sam was surprised to find that there was not the slightest amount of curiosity in his mind. He was sincerely satisfied not to know, unlike Sam, who knew the witch could sense his straining inquisitiveness. "I'm sorry."

Sam shrugged. "Don't be. It was a long time ago." Anyway, the pain of her death was harder to feel—maybe even blocked out completely—now that it had been replaced by Gabriel, and the new feeling in his head was more soothing than he could say.

Gabriel looked up at Sam again, and the grin abruptly returned. Sam returned it, some of Gabriel's unexplained happiness rubbing off on him. There was such warmth and vibrancy emanating from the witch—a sort of subdued energy, something he appeared capable of tapping into at any moment. "This is gonna be fun."

"Should I be worried?"

Gabriel shrugged and stood up, carrying his bottle over to the fridge for later. He stumbled slightly, like the part of him connected to Sam still believed he should be sitting down. "Probably." After the beer was screwed shut and placed back in the fridge, he turned back to Sam, abruptly serious. "When were you planning on telling your brother?"

Of course. Naturally, Gabriel could sense the feeling of secrecy and urgency veiled over the decision to be here. He shifted slightly, and Gabriel's gaze, now back on Sam, remained unwavering. "I dunno. Tomorrow, I guess."

"What, just gonna call him up? 'Hey, bro, I just Bonded with a witch against your obvious wishes. See you around!'"

The criticism was so unexpected that Sam wasn't quite sure how to answer. "Well, no, I—look, it—"

Gabriel sighed and said in resignation, "No, it's okay, don't bother. The whole running-from-responsibility thing—I get it." Sam could tell from the state of his mind that Gabriel wasn't just saying it; he really _did_ get it. There was a swarm of memories floating just under the surface, but Sam had no access to them—only the realization that there was more history behind that statement than Gabriel would want anyone to believe.

"I'm not running from anything," insisted Sam. "I just—I mean, it's my choice, isn't it?" He felt like he was justifying all this to himself as much as he was to Gabriel. "He'd never let me out of his sight if I asked him beforehand. Being forced into it is the only way he'll come to terms with it."

Gabriel nodded understandingly. "Well until then, my place is yours, Gigantor." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Where are you gonna sleep, anyway?"

"Uh." Sam looked around, as if hoping to see an extra bed sitting in the corner. Truth be told, he hadn't given much thought towards the whole living-with-Gabriel thing. "I'll be fine on the couch, I guess."

"You sure?"

In answer, Sam accessed the other side of his brain, the side with four legs and a tail. His first few transformations had been confusing and utterly disorienting, but now he was so used to it that it took barely more than a thought. Now a shaggy brown dog, he stepped down a circle on the couch cushion before flopping down and placing his furry chin on the armrest, drooping eyes meeting Gabriel's. The smell of the house flooded his nostrils so that each breath filled him with the scent of alcohol, herbs, candy, and the faint smell of something burning, like brimstone. Somehow, it wasn't unpleasant—it was comforting, homely. This place was as much his now as Gabriel's; this scent belonged to him as much as his own.

Gabriel laughed in surprise and crossed the few steps to the sofa. "I should've guessed, fleabag," he teased, ruffling the fur between Sam's ears, but the tone in which he uttered the insult was friendly, even affectionate. "See you in the morning."

Sam's tail flopped once against the cushion. Then Gabriel turned and vanished down the hallway.


	3. Chapter 2

Dean knew something was wrong the moment he woke up. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the curtain, but he was utterly alone in the room. There were no noises whatsoever—no running water, no soap opera voices from the TV, no smell of breakfast… Sam was almost always awake before him; in fact, usually the only reason Dean woke up before ten at all was because his brother was banging around somewhere.

This time, though, it was completely silent, and Dean had woken up of his own accord, and that worried him.

A glance told him the other bed was empty. Judging by the perfectly made blankets, Sam hadn't even tried to sleep in it before disappearing on whatever nighttime adventure he'd had in mind. Grumbling, Dean rolled over. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Checking his phone showed him that Sam hadn't so much as shot a text his way to let him know he was alright.

He swallowed as butterflies fluttered in his stomach. "Shit." Visions of Sam's corpse, mutilated in various ways, flashed across Dean's eyes as he hurriedly yanked on his shoes and jacket and shoved his phone in his pocket. He was already imagining nightmarish situations in which Sam stopped by a gas station and was shot in the middle of a hold-up, or got into a car accident before he even got there, or was killed by one of those two hunters that cashier guy mentioned…

The sight of the note tacked to the door made him freeze. Scrawled in Sam's handwriting were the words, "Gone down to The Mystery Spot to talk to Gabriel. Meet me there in the morning. –Sam"

Dean remembered his brother's face when he and that cashier—Gabriel, he realized—first made eye contact. There was this look in his eyes that reminded Dean of the time he'd spotted a stray puppy across the street and had begged to keep it, despite their very puppy-unfriendly lifestyle (and the fact that Dean would never allow one inside the Impala). His brother was… well, not love-struck, but there was definitely a strong undercurrent of desire somewhere in there. It was obvious that whatever that cashier had was something Sam wanted, and Dean should've known from that moment that there wouldn't be anything he could do to keep Sam from getting it.

Dean didn't know how this whole Bonding thing worked, and he certainly didn't understand what the hoopla was about. Being "Bonded" to a complete stranger—essentially revealing his soul to said stranger—didn't appeal to him in the slightest. Yeah, Sam and Jess had turned out alright, but who's to say Dean would have such luck? With his lot in life, he was likely to get stuck with someone who didn't want him.

Seeing how Sam had taken the Impala, Dean set off down the sidewalk at a run, making a beeline for the shop. With every step, his anger and resentment seemed to grow. How could Sam pull something like this without saying something? He just vanished into the night to go off with some—some _dude._ How could he do that when he was all Dean had left?

Dean was seething by the time he reached the store to the point where he wouldn't have been surprised if there was steam whistling from his ears. He slammed into the door, shoving it open with such force that the store's only customer—a frizzy-haired woman examining the crystals—jumped in surprise. "Get out," snarled Dean, and she scurried out the door.

The scene that met his eyes when he turned to the cash register was plenty enough to spur him over the edge, but he held himself back, his jaw clenched and brow set. The cashier had just looked up from the side, where Dean saw Sam in dog form, sitting patiently by the table and looking for all the world like the dude's pet. Dean, being able to take the form of a falcon, had perched on plenty of shoulders before, but this was downright _wrong_…

Completely ignoring the cashier, Dean made straight for Sam, in half a mind to grab him by the scruff and drag him out of the store. "Sammy, what the hell."

In the blink of an eye, the dog was a man again, rising to his feet from where he was squatted on the floor. He looked incredibly guilty, which only made Dean more furious. "Dean, I'm sorry, I was gonna t—"

Dean didn't hesitate. He pulled back his arm and snapped it forward into Sam's face. His knuckles hurt like hell, but it felt good, at least. Gabriel started forward, but Dean made no other move to beat on his brother; he deserved that punch, and only that. He knew it, too—in the typical guilty brotherly fashion, he took it without complaint or retaliation. "What the fuck are you thinking, man? Just gonna stop and move in with this guy and send me packing?"

"What—no, Dean, of course not!"

"'This guy' has a name," complained Gabriel from behind the counter.

Dean didn't even look at him. "Shut the fuck up."

Sam cast a warning glance at Gabriel, but otherwise ignored the intrusion. "Look, we can make this work. We made Jess work, remember?"

"Yeah, what am I supposed to do, huh? Be your awkward third wheel again while you set up a happy life with this 'Gabriel' dude? Why would you ev—"

"Because we did what we set out to do!" Sam had a hard edged look in his face, like he was finally saying something he'd been holding back for a long time. "We avenged Jess _two years ago, _and we've just been roaming ever since. I just—I just want a family again, Dean!"

"I AM YOUR FAMILY, SAM!"

The ensuing silence that filled the room was so complete that for a moment Dean thought he'd fallen deaf. The outrage in his voice faded just slightly, replaced by a different but equally strong emotion that was doing its best to block the words from leaving his throat: "Mom, Dad, Jess—you're all I got left."

Sam's expression melted. Dean knew he was remembering, remembering each one of those losses in turn and in the same graphic detail as the days they'd happened. Dean knew there was no point in reminding him of such painful points in their lives, but he felt a kind of savage satisfaction to see the effects of it playing across Sam's face. "You're right." Sam looked small again, like the little brother he'd always been to Dean, and the elder Winchester's rage subsided just slightly. "You're right, Dean, I'm sorry. I should've talked to you first, at least."

"Yeah, you should've." Dean paced back and forth, in no way appeased but just now beginning to accept. Sam was Bonded to this Gabriel dude now—there was no way around it, unless Dean killed the guy or something, but he didn't even pause to consider that option.

"So is your brotherly codependency moment over now, or what?"

Dean looked over to see that Gabriel was sitting in a chair now with his feet propped up on the counter, chewing on a bite of a Snicker's bar that he seemed to have pulled out of his ass. He looked _bored_ for chrissake, like he was watching some kind of shitty late-night drama. He certainly hadn't shown the slightest interest in anything that was just said. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

The guy munched another bite of his candy bar with a sly expression. "What, your brother never even mentioned me?" He looked at Sam in mock hurt. "Sam, I thought we had a connection."

Sam gave him an exasperated look—God, they were already giving each other _looks_—before saying with one of his bitchiest bitch-faces, "Dean, this is Gabriel. He's a witch. Gabriel, this is Dean. He's my brother."

"Yeah, I got that," Dean replied in a tone heavy with annoyance. "I mean, who _is_ he?"

"_He_ thinks you're prying too much," answered Gabriel firmly.

Dean looked to Sam, expecting to get a straight answer from him, but Sam just shrugged uncomfortably, clearly just as knowledgeable as Dean on the subject. "You mean you don't even know what he _does_ with his hell-bought magic?" he accused. "What the hell were you thinking? 'Oh, whatever, I'll just bind myself to this guy I know absolutely nothing about.' What the fuck, Sam?"

Sam shifted awkwardly, jamming his hands in his pockets. "It was the same way with Jess."

"Yeah, cause you didn't know better!" Dean ran a hand down his face, the fingers dragging over skin. He heaved a long sigh, reminding himself that what's done is done. "Right. Whatever. I'll just—go back to the room and grab my stuff, okay?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." For the first time, Gabriel actually looked concerned. "Grab your stuff? Why? Where're you bringing it?"

"Up to your place, Short Round." Dean took pleasure in the fact that he was finally hitting a nerve with this guy. "You want my brother, you gotta deal with me, too. It's a package deal. No refunds."

"Oh ho ho ho, _hell no._ I just found out yesterday I'm adopting a dog, I'm not taking in a grouchy bow-legged bag of dicks, too."

Dean shifted his footing a little, suddenly self-conscious of the outward bend of his knees, but he lifted his chin and said, "Well that's too bad, cause that's what's gonna happen. Guess you shoulda thought about it before you asked my brother out to prom, huh?"

Gabriel started to protest, but Dean turned for the door. He was Sam's problem now.

-x-

_Dean was worried sick—literally sick. He felt like he was gonna puke. This wasn't the first time Sam had vanished in the night, and he didn't doubt it wouldn't be the last, but so soon after Jess's death, Dean feared the worst. Suicide. Alcohol overdose. Road rage._

_He'd never seen Sam so torn up as he was the night before. He was an utter _wreck. _Dean doubted he would ever understand the strength of closeness between them, how it ran deeper than words could describe; most familiars defined it as a "melding of souls," whatever that meant, but Dean was beginning to get some idea for it just by watching Sam's reaction to its loss. After Sam's pledge for vengeance, he became incoherent, making pained noises that Dean hoped he would never have to utter again. It seemed to last hours. Dean had to practically drag him away from the house, and he struggled weakly the whole way, saying he couldn't leave her. It wasn't until they were in a hotel room that Sam finally collapsed on the bed, curled in a fetal position and sobbing silently, his face screwed up like a child who'd lost his puppy as the tears streamed out of the corners of his eyes. Dean had been too concerned with Sam to spare any sorrow for himself; he had laid down on his own bed, facing Sam, and waited for sleep to come._

_And Dean had thought that was the end of it. He'd thought the emotional strain was enough to make Sam sleep through the night, and some crappy older brother he was, because Sam, apparently, snuck away in the night to get himself killed or something. Dean should've known better, he really should've._

_He grabbed his phone and dialed Sam's number without hesitation, pulling on his shoes as he went. Sam, thank whatever deities were in charge of their shitty lives, picked up on the fourth ring. Dean was so angry and so relieved he didn't even wait for Sam to say anything: "Sammy, where the hell are you?!" Sam told him, and he left._

_When Dean pulled up to the intersection Sam mentioned, he found a large brown dog lying dejectedly at the corner. As Dean watched, someone stopped to ruffle the fur between his brother's ears, but Sam, who normally would've at least wagged his tail, did not so much as look at them. Without a word, Dean stopped by the side of the road and opened the back door for Sam to climb through._

_Dean drove the Impala into an empty lot down the road. At some point during the ride, Sam must've become human again, because his brother was two-legged again by the time the car rolled to a stop. He was lying curled up on the back seat, his face blank of emotion, and made no attempt to move or even acknowledge his brother when the back door was opened. If Dean couldn't see his chest moving, he would've thought for a second that the guy had died. In a way, he supposed he did._

"_Sam."_

_Nothing. He didn't even twitch._

_Dean edged his way into the backseat, lifting up Sam's head and letting it lay back on his thigh once he was seated. He left the door open, allowing the sounds of birds and passing cars to provide the background music. "If you ain't gonna talk, then just listen, okay? I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry we left Jess alone last night. I'm sorry I left _you_ alone last night. I should've… should've stayed awake, kept an eye on you." Sam's head turned, the first sign of life since he got in the car, and there was a weary dejectedness to his gaze as he studied Dean wordlessly._

"_It's not your fault." The words sounded as empty and hollow as Sam looked. He turned his head again and said no more, as though he had used up his quota of spoken words._

_Dean waited for a moment, but Sam said no more. It was scary, seeing him like this. Normally vibrant and full of quiet energy, seeing Sam spent and silent as a husk was like watching someone with Alzheimer's slowly forget their own life. A part of him had died last night, and now he was decomposing. "You've probably got a monster headache. I'm gonna drive back t—"_

_Dean made to get up, but Sam caught his sleeve and held him fast. Sam had grown a lot in the past few years—both mentally and physically—but now he was once again the six-year-old boy who needed reassurance that it was just a thunderstorm. Dean settled back into the seat again and Sam's hand dropped._

"_Alright," he agreed softly, swallowing back his anxiety. "We'll sit here until you're ready to move, okay?"_

_And there they stayed, Dean's hand protectively on Sam's shoulder, Sam with his head in Dean's lap._

-x-

With the Impala idling in the hotel parking lot, he headed to their room, expecting just to grab his things, check out, and go back to his new place. What he found instead, however, was a vicious right-hook waiting for him just inside the door. Fingers wrapped vice-like around his wrist and flipped him around, pinning him against the wall. He got a glimpse of a beautiful girl's face and a long curtain of blond hair before red fire sliced open his arm and he hissed in pain.

He felt the fleshy patch of skin under his jaw yield to the point of a knife. "Is the other one out there?" asked the girl, apparently addressing someone else. Dean assumed "the other one" meant Sam, because an answering voice—a male's—responded, "No."

The girl turned back to Dean. "Listen to me, you piece of dirt." Her voice was cold and level, even soft in a venomous sort of way. "You're going to tell me where your brother is, or I'm going to give you a personal glimpse into Hell."

Dean glanced over her shoulder, where he saw a slightly older man with close-cropped, graying hair and a face that gave the impression he was constantly sneering. Dean suddenly remembered Gabriel's warning from before: _"Well, there've been rumors going around that there's a pair of hunters nearby who're out to torch some witches."_ He'd forgotten, and as a result ran straight into them, apparently. Then again, he realized, they seemed to have been waiting for him. How had they found him? And how long until they found their true target?

_Gotta warn Sam._ That was the only driving thought in his mind as he tried to change forms, but was alarmed to find that he couldn't. The animal side of his brain was inaccessible.

The girl's grip on him tightened, smugness giving her face a rather ugly set. "There's no flying away this time, Tweety Bird. That sigil I carved into your arm will make sure of that." _Well, shit._ "Now why don't you tell me where your brother is before I let Alistair here have his way with you?"

The other man, whom Dean assumed was the one named Alistair, was spinning a cruelly curved knife between his fingers. Dean rolled his eyes. Like he would just betray his brother because of some old fart with a fancy pig-sticker. "Go fuck yourself."

She looked faintly amused, but in the kind of way that would send chills down a lesser man's spine. The arm holding her knife suddenly tensed and for a moment Dean thought this was the end, but she flipped the blade around in her fist and struck him hard on the head with its handle. He saw a flash of stars; then, lights out.

-x-

Dean woke to an exceptionally painful throbbing feeling in his head. He was very used to this kind of awakening—it was all too common with as much whiskey as he drank, especially recently—but this was a different kind of headache. This felt more like a nail being pounded into his skull than a hangover.

…Furthermore, he woke to find himself strapped to a chair.

His chin was resting against his bare collarbone, his wrists tied uncomfortably tight to the armrests, his ankles belted to the legs of the chair. His shirt was missing, he noticed. The room was awfully chilly, and a draft blew across his chest, giving him goosebumps. When his eyes opened, something on his temple cracked like dried skin—blood from the possibly concussive blow, he assumed. No sooner had he stretched his facial muscles than a fist came out of nowhere and nailed him in the jaw, the force twisting his neck so sharply that he felt rather than heard one of the joints pop. "Good morning to you, too, sweetcheeks," groaned Dean, turning to face his assaulter.

It was the blonde girl. She loomed over him, her expression emotionless. "Are you sure you're not going to talk?" she asked in a low, almost sultry voice, as though he was just being a "bad boy" and she was going to whip some words out of him.

As an answer, he smiled a bit and winked at her. That earned him another punch, this time in the gut so that he doubled over, gasping. He was sure there would be a nasty, splotchy bruise there before the day was done. He hadn't even caught his breath before the girl walloped him again, once more across the face. His teeth jarred. He tasted blood.

This went on until his nose was broken, both eyes were swollen shut, and his face was so sore and sticky with blood that it must've been beyond recognition. He turned to the side to spit out a tooth, and a small puddle of blood tipped from his mouth. Fingers curled in his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. For a moment, he thought someone was going to slice it open, but instead the girl just growled, "You had enough yet?"

Dean spit out the remainder of the blood in his mouth. He could hear the sound of something heavy being dragged in front of him, but he couldn't open his eyes wide enough to see what it was. "What do you want with my brother?"

In answer, her grip in his hair suddenly tightened and she forced his head down almost between his knees. His face suddenly made contact with an icy substance that he realized a split-second later was water. Unprepared for the dunk, he ran out of breath quickly and inhaled water, prompting coughing and more inhaling. The pressure on his head vanished and he lifted it gratefully, sucking in air between coughing up water. Before he got more than a lungful, he was under again.

He didn't know how long she did it for; he just knew that every time, he seemed to be held down longer. It was terrifying. Every single fucking time felt like the last. Every water-filled breath scraped his trachea raw on the way down and boiled in his lungs. And every time, just when he thought he was done, just when he thought he could take in no more water and he would surely drown face-down in a fucking barrel, the hand on the back of his head would vanish and he would get one more taste of air. For all he knew, the water dripping down his face during those moments could've been tears. The only upside to it was that the temperature of it soothed the wounds on his face and the swelling in his eyes went down enough that he could open them.

Finally—_finally_—she let go of his head and he slumped in the seat, spitting up more water than he thought was possible for a pair of lungs to hold. He could hear nothing over his long and ragged breaths, but he didn't need to in order to understand what the blonde hunter was asking him: "Had enough yet?"

His brain wasn't working and his pulse was racing. He felt incredibly nauseous and he just wanted to lie down and sleep until the fire in his chest burned out. He struggled in vain to even out his breathing for what felt like a minute before weakly answering with teeth bared, "Bitch." It wasn't his best by far, but for the moment, he couldn't manage more than a word or two at a time.

The girl looked over to Alistair, who had moved the barrel of water away, thank God. "He's all yours."

Alistair's lips twitched in a small smile. "With pleasure."

-x-

_At the start of their vigil, Dean had been immersing himself in his thoughts, finally taking the time to consider his own feelings in all this. He was still reeling in shock. _Jess._ The lifestyle he led with her and Sam wasn't exactly routine, but he'd gotten used to it. He'd _loved_ it. He got to travel as much as he wanted; he saw Sam plenty; and Jess was perhaps the most generous landlord on the face of the planet. Yes, there were plenty of moments when he felt out of place, like he was crowding them, but it was worth it for the times when he didn't. He still couldn't quite believe that, out of all the witches in the world, that goddamn hunter had gone after her._

_After the first couple hours, though, he admitted he dozed off a few times in the backseat of that car. It was fast approaching noon, after all, before Sam showed any signs of movement. He'd just laid there with his eyes open the whole fucking time, and when he finally spoke, it was to ask, "Why are you here?"_

_For a second, Dean couldn't believe Sam was asking it. "Cause I'm your brother and you asked me to stay back here."_

"_No, I mean—" Sam twisted in his seat, and it was heartening to see at least some level of emotion in those eyes, even if it was a despairing one. "I mean, why stay with me at all? The whole time with Jess, you could've just high-tailed it. Stopped by on holidays, birthdays, if that. But you didn't. You—" his throat convulsed, "—you stayed."_

"_Course I did, dipshit. You're my family. You're all I got left, and I'll always be there for you, and not just cause I owe it to you. Hear me?" He waited until Sam's eyes met his. "I'll always be here to protect you, Sammy, understand?"_

_After a long pause, Sam nodded. Dean, sensing that it was alright to do so, got up and moved into the driver's seat. It was time they got back to their room._

-x-

The girl exited Dean's frame of vision, but whether or not she left the room, he couldn't tell.

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted. When he opened them, he found himself staring into the face of Alistair. The man looked even crueler up-close—or perhaps it was just the harsh lighting throwing his rough features into such sharp relief. Either way, Dean had to admit he was a rather frightening sight to behold, especially considering the fact that he was holding the same knife as he was earlier, fucking _caressing_ the thing with his long fingers. He just stood there for a moment while Dean caught his breath, watching and waiting like a starving vulture.

"See, I can tell you're one of the types who doesn't break easy," drawled Alistair finally. He had a sort of nasally voice with a curious accent that seemed to drag the words from his mouth. "So we're going to take this nice and slow, alright?"

"Suck my d—" Dean was cut off by his own half-strangled cry of pain and surprise as the knife drew a line straight down his arm. He swore up a storm without even thinking about what he was saying as blood welled at the seam and streamed over, rivulets ringing his arm.

"Are you a fan of symmetry, Dean?" Alistair sounded like he was having a light-hearted conversation, like the recipient of his words wasn't strapped bloody to a chair. "Sometimes, when I'm trying to get some information out of little pricks like you, I like to keep both sides even, you know?" He repeated the injury to Dean's other arm as he spoke, this time slower. Dean sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth and tried to ignore the fact that all he wanted to do was grab a cold towel and smother his arms in it, anything to make the blood stop. "There's just too much chaos in this world. I like a little… neatness now and then."

"Are you going to talk the whole time? Because if I have to listen to you go on like this, I might just have to stab myself." Dean tried to cover up his panting with as much irony as he could muster, but it was impossible to quell his sharp, quick gasps.

"All in due time, Dean. First we do the slicing, which is always my favorite bit. You know something," he began to draw each one of Dean's metacarpal bones with his knife, his strokes thoughtfully measured, "a long time ago, I was interrogating a demon, and you know what she called me? 'Picasso with a razor.'" He chuckled softly in a pleased sort of way, like he was recalling someone who thought highly of him. Dean, meanwhile, had to remind himself not to clench his fists; tension would only make the blood flow faster. "I really liked that."

_This guy's a fucking psychopath. _"Yeah, I bet you loved it so much you stabbed her, right?"

"Well, eventually."

It went on like that for a long time, longer than Dean could've ever thought possible. Alistair was a steady stream of chatter, everything from sick, twisted anecdotes to random facts that were only vaguely related to the matter at hand. The hunter—if he could even be called that—lingered on Dean's arms and hands for a while, carving them up real slow like he was savoring every cut, before moving up his shoulders and to his face. ("You have such a lovely face, you know. So many contours. It's just waiting to feel the tip of my knife.") While the girl—who, apparently,_ hadn't_ left the room—held his head in an unwavering grip, he drew until Dean could barely see for the blood dripping in his eyes, until it hurt to express any and every emotion, so much so that he ceased showing anything altogether. Alistair wasn't pleased with his sudden silence; the torturer's words became barbed and sought out provocation, his cuts becoming more violent. He gave up on "symmetry" for a moment and simply lashed at Dean's face a few times, slashing straight lines across his features.

Once he was satisfied by the quality of Dean's face, the knife roved downwards. Alistair avoided the neck—"Don't want to end this too soon," he'd said—and instead began engraving God-only-knows what kinds of designs into his torso. He even carved the word "WORTHLESS" across Dean's upper chest, like a banner from shoulder to shoulder. ("You're quite useless, you know that? You can't even walk into a hotel room without being captured. And your brother—we'll find him one way or another. If you ask me, you're pretty worthless at protecting him, however this situation turns out." Dean's involuntary cringe at the words seemed to encourage him. "You don't like that word, do you? Worthless?")

The blonde hunter watched everything, wordless for the most part. At random points she would interrupt Alistair to ask a single question: "Where's Sam, Dean?" Always the same question, always the same format. "Where's Sam, Dean? Tell me where he is and Alistair will stop." And every time Dean would grit his teeth and hiss profanities. Because what kind of brother would he be if he just gave in? What kind of _person_ would he be if he just gave in, especially now, when Alistair was just getting warmed up? No, he could take much worse than this. And he _would_ take it, because there was no other choice. Betraying Sam was not an option. If he was worth one thing to his brother right now, it was for his silence.

His mentality about keeping quiet, however, began to change when Alistair, apparently satisfied with his masterpiece, set the bloodstained knife down on a table and vanished for a moment. Dean sat and waited for his return, as still as a statue, his skin itching where blood trickled over it, every single cut stinging like hellfire. He wanted to move, to _run_, to spread his wings and fly the fuck out of there, but he forced himself to sit still because he was sure he was dying of blood loss already and he felt too sluggish to think about moving. When Alistair returned, it was with a poker and a blowtorch. "We're gonna step it up a notch here, Dean, I hope you don't mind, but I got a little bored with the knife." He spoke as he turned on the blowtorch, running the blue flame over the end of the poker in practiced, methodical motions until the iron tip glowed red-hot.

Dean watched the end of that poker with apprehension that made his eyes round. Knowing what to expect somehow made it worse. Alistair smiled kindly and extended his arm, pressing the metal against the inside of Dean's thigh. His teeth ground together and he yelled through them as the hot metal instantly burned through the denim of his jeans, only to sear away his skin. The smell of sizzling flesh hit his nose a second later, making him gag. After a moment that was far too long, the poker pulled away, but the burning continued. Besides being hot enough to fry an egg to a blackened crisp, the poker provided the double torture of being made of iron. The metal—toxic to most magical beings—shot spiking lances of pain up his leg and made him feel even queasier.

By the time he was able to open his eyes without feeling like he was going to throw up, he spotted the blonde standing behind Alistair, her face smug at his obvious torment. "Where's Sam, Dean?" she asked again, and she sounded so goddamn sure of herself that Dean felt he had no other choice but to spite her.

He looked down at Alistair, half-blind with blood and agony, and his lips twitched slightly in a ghost of his cocky grin. "That all you got, sunshine?"

The change that overcame the girl was immediate. Her jaw set in a scowl, eyes suddenly glaring. Alistair, however, only looked pleased with how long Dean was lasting. "I'm impressed, Dean. Most of you creatures break after your first burn. You're one of three to last this far." And, true to his whole _symmetry_ ordeal, he re-heated the poker and pressed it against Dean's other leg.

It continued like that for a little while, and with every new sizzling, nauseating wound Dean was more and more tempted to spill the beans, anything to make it end. Just thinking about the possibility made him feel guilty, but he didn't know how much more of this he could take. He didn't want to look down at himself—he was probably a mess. There was more blistered and broken skin than unmarred now, he was sure, most of the brand new burns clustered at the sensitive stretches of skin on the insides of his legs and arms.

He was heartened, however, to see that the girl seemed to be growing more and more frustrated with each excruciating infliction. She asked between every burn now, her tone becoming louder and angrier each time she repeated it, her frown deepening until she looked absolutely furious, stalking back and forth behind Alistair like a prodded lion. "Where's Sam?!" she would scream in his face, and he would muster a twisted smile and croak, "Fuck you."

The pain consumed him until he wasn't even sure who he was anymore. If this was just a personal glimpse into Hell, then he didn't ever want to experience the real deal. He remembered sending a few silent, vague prayers up to whoever was watching that he wouldn't. God or no God, he couldn't imagine facing an eternity of this shit.

Just as with the drowning, he felt like he was on the brink, like he was just about to give up his brother for some form of relief when he was given a breath of air in the form of the female hunter losing control. "I'm sick of this!" She shoved Alistair aside with the snarled exclamation, grabbing the bloody knife off the table and advancing on Dean. "He's never going to break at this rate!"

Expecting to feel the blade pierce his heart, he relaxed in the chair, grateful that his freedom was eminent. Instead, however, she cut the strap around his right wrist, freeing the bloody appendage. Before it even registered that he had a free hand, she'd pinned it to the table and raised the knife above her head, handle-down. With a _swish_ and a collection of snaps, she pounded the wooden handle into his hand, pulverizing about five of his finger bones.

Every muscle tensed as a tortured yell was ripped from him, filling the chamber with the presence of the sound. He tried to pull his hand away, but the girl held it fast.

"Lilith!" shouted Alistair in surprise, and Dean was too buried in the feeling of his broken fingers to bother taking advantage of the fact that he now knew her name.

She ignored the other hunter. "WHERE'S YOUR BROTHER, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!"

He was breathing fast through clenched teeth, trying to overcome this new agony that blocked out all the others, trying to gain control of it. If he could've thought of a coherent answer just then, he might've given it to her. They weren't shitting around anymore. He'd have to deal with plenty more before he could taste the sweet relief of dying.

Alistair gave up trying to restrain her and she brought the knife down again, smashing more fingers. Then again. And again. And again, until Dean wasn't even sure he had a hand there anymore, until his arm just ended at the wrist and all that existed beyond it was _pain_. He screamed and cried, tears flowing freely now, voice hoarse. He sounded like Sam had sounded after Jess died.

"Tell me!" she shrieked between every blow. "Tell me where Sam is!"

Dean actually bit his tongue to keep from just answering her. He was pretty sure he broke the skin, but there was too much blood in his mouth already to tell.

She waited for a moment, but when Dean did nothing but whimper disjointed pleas for her to stop, she twisted the knife around in her grip. "This isn't getting us anywhere." The words were spoken in a low voice that trembled in barely-controlled rage. She pulled back her arm and Dean was so damn _grateful_ because here it finally was, after hours—hell, days, for all he knew—of this shit, he was at last getting the inevitable, the only ending in sight, the only chance for release that he had left.

He thought the blood loss must be getting to his brain, because he could've sworn he'd suddenly just seen Alistair getting flung across the room as though thrown by an invisible Hulk. _Am I dreaming?_ "What th—" started Lilith, but she was cut short by a nasty _snap_ as her head twisted apparently of its own accord and her neck broke. She fell to the ground with a heavy thump. _Yeah, definitely dreaming._

A second later, a stranger stepped into Dean's line of vision and crouched down in front of him. A cold chill settled in his stomach. He thought he just saw—but no. It was gone now, and he must've been imagining it. The man's eyes were bright blue; God, Dean didn't think he'd ever seen something so beautifully, wonderfully blue as he did in that moment. The strange man tipped his head to the side, his gaze mildly inquisitive—not pitying or even comforting, just intrigued. "Are you Dean Winchester?"

Was this guy for real? Dean was half-convinced that Lilith had stabbed him and he was in some kind of warped version of the afterlife. Maybe this was purgatory or something. The man continued to stare at him for another moment, his expression almost awed, his face swimming in Dean's unfocused gaze. Dean, unwilling or perhaps unable to answer, swallowed and asked hoarsely, "Who are you?"

"Castiel." The name didn't ring a bell. "I'm here to take you home." He reached up as if to lay a hand consolingly on Dean's shoulder. The moment Castiel's skin made contact with his, however, a bolt of electricity shot between them.

_I've died and gone to Hell,_ Dean convinced himself as the energy exploded outward from his shoulder, filling his entire body and scrambling his brains like eggs in the morning. _I'm in Hell and for some reason this dude "Castiel" is my torturer._ He thought for sure Castiel must've been a fiction of some form, perhaps a demon taking the name from the fringe of Dean's memories. The thing was in his head for chrissake, burning like Alistair's poker. It melted away the edge of his mind and peeled it open, exposing it to… something. He didn't know what. Empty space? Other tormented souls? Maybe this was part of the process or something, Dean didn't know.

In one sweeping rush, all doubt of Castiel's credibility vanished, washed away, because at that moment, he _was_ Castiel. What a relief it was—to be standing in front of himself, only half-aware of his own wounds. He practically fell on the other man's soul in his eagerness to be away from himself, only to shy away in fright. Castiel had a dark core, twisted and blackened like it had been scorched away to nothing. His mind, for lack of a better word, was _archaic._ This guy was freakishly old. There was something about him, something that Dean couldn't describe, but it gave the impression that the guy wasn't completely human.

Dean, apparently, had the same initial effect on Castiel, who recoiled from the scarred, broken creature that was now in such close proximity. After a moment, however, his shock gave way, and Dean sensed in him curiosity and wonder, like he'd never seen anything like Dean before. Dean struggled to return to himself, to retreat into his own body, because any damaged flesh was better than the supernatural _thing_ that lurked inside of the man in front of him. But he couldn't. He found himself inexplicably tied to Castiel, unable to pull away. Resisting became painful, so Dean gave up on it altogether and let himself be lost.

It must have been too much to handle, because before more than a second had passed, Dean—and, as a result, Castiel—blacked out.


	4. Chapter 3

Sam paced back and forth, restless in his worry. It had been four hours since Dean left, and Sam had heard nothing of where he might be. The remnants of a failed tracking spell were scattered across the kitchen table, where Gabriel was seated, watching Sam with interlocked fingers and carefully narrowed eyes, his concern only evident through the bond they shared.

After Dean had taken so long to return, Sam had jogged back down to the hotel and found the Impala idling in its parking space and the door to their room ajar. As he feared, the room was empty when he entered it, with no sign of Dean's presence at all. A small venture in his four-legged form revealed the scents of two strangers plastered all over the room, having evidently searched the place. He was able to follow it out the door, but lost it somewhere in the parking lot—presumably because they'd hopped in their car and left with Dean in tow.

Even though Gabriel disliked Dean, he didn't hesitate to jump into action as soon as he'd heard what happened (albeit with a few ill-humored jokes that got no smile from Sam). He closed the shop and they moved upstairs so they wouldn't be interrupted. All five of their attempts to locate Dean via spellwork, however, failed. Gabriel said that the people who'd taken him must be taking precautions (in the form of hex bags) to keep themselves and Dean hidden. He called up a few witches in the area—and even one from across the country—for advice, but they had none to give him. There was simply no known spell that could clear the fog obscuring Dean's location.

Finally, Gabriel, apparently with great reluctance, knocked on the closed door of Castiel's bedroom. It took three tries before he got a response, and even then, the door only cracked open. Sam didn't catch what was said—Castiel spoke too quietly—but he definitely heard Gabriel's exclamation: "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Cas? You just gonna leave this guy to die?" Sam heard more murmuring coming from the open door. "Yeah, you'd better," snapped Gabriel. "I dunno what you're doing in there, but this is important, okay?" Another pause. "Yeah. Yeah, you do that."

Scowling, Gabriel returned to the sitting room. "Cas said he'll 'put forth his best efforts,' or some shit."

Sam felt weak and hollow inside, wilted now that his last prayer had apparently fallen on empty ears. "How's that supposed to help?"

"Trust me, if there's any hope left for Dean, it's with Cas."

Sam didn't understand what that said about Castiel, but for the moment, he didn't have any concern to spare for Gabriel's reclusive roommate. "What do you mean, 'if there's any hope left for Dean'?"

"Sam." Gabriel said his name gently, but he looked uncomfortable. "Look, I know it hurts, but you need to consider the fact that you might never see Dean alive again. Whoever took him, I mean… they mean business."

"No." Sam shook his head, turning stubbornly away from Gabriel. "No, they took him alive, I could smell it. That means they want something from him, and that means there's still hope for him." Gabriel tried to say something, but Sam interrupted angrily, "I'm not just gonna give him up for dead! He's still alive, okay?!"

That had been an hour ago. Since then, Sam had been able to think of nothing but Dean and all the possible outcomes of this turn of events. He could be dead, yeah—actually, with every passing minute, that possibility became more and more likely—but Sam didn't want to think about that. Dean had never given up on him, so he wouldn't give up on Dean until he was clutching his brother's lifeless body in his arms.

"What is Castiel even doing?" asked Sam for the third time, rounding on Gabriel.

The witch opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes focused on something over Sam's shoulder and he tensed in surprise, half-rising from his chair. "Cas…!"

Sam whirled to see a man—Castiel, he assumed—who had appeared there apparently out of nowhere, clutching something bloody in his arms. He sidestepped Sam with barely a glance in his direction and headed quickly for his bedroom.

"Cas, is that—is that…?" Gabriel trailed off in shock, and it was only then that Sam turned his attention to what Castiel was carrying. It was clearly a body, but whether dead or alive, he couldn't tell. There was so much blood, just _everywhere,_ Sam couldn't possibly believe the person in Castiel's arms was alive, but there was an urgency to his pace that suggested they might be. _Who the hell even _is_ that…?_

"Castiel!" Gabriel yelled sternly, and the man turned with a pained expression, giving Sam a good look at the mangled body's face.

A stone dropped in his stomach. Marred as it was, he would recognize those features anywhere. He certainly knew them well enough. "Oh, my God…" It couldn't be. No way. "Is—" he swallowed, "is that Dean?" He stepped closer, almost hesitantly, his heart twisting when he caught sight of the word carved into its chest, the disfigured fingers, the holes burned through his jeans. "Is that my brother?"

Castiel didn't answer, but something in his eyes confirmed Sam's fears. Then he turned and vanished into his room, slamming the door closed behind him.

Sam was in shock. Dean had been beaten up pretty bad before, but nothing near _that._ God, Sam hadn't even recognized him. The only reason he put the pieces together at all was a vague resemblance and the realization that it really couldn't be anyone else. What the hell had even happened to him? There was blood, there was so much blood, and just patches and patches of burnt skin and his face was so messed up Sam didn't think it would ever look the same again.

He started forward, about to follow the stranger through the door, but Gabriel caught him by the arm. "Leave him be. He'll patch up your brother, trust me, just don't interrupt him."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Sam in a feeble voice, because he had seen Dean, had seen all those wounds and how could he walk away from that intact?

"He's incredibly powerful." Gabriel guided Sam to the sofa and sat him down before taking a seat in the chair. Sam wasn't reassured, but he didn't say so. They sat there for a while, numb and silent while Castiel clattered around in his room, hastily throwing together spells if the sound was anything to go by.

Finally, Gabriel spoke, sounding troubled: "Did you see that burn on his shoulder?"

"He had a lot of burns." Like, a _lot._ Too many.

"Yeah, but the one on his shoulder was different. It was shaped like a hand, and it looked like—like this." Gabriel held up the hand Sam had touched the night before, turning it so that Sam could see the reddish mark on the back of it.

_Shaped like a hand._ Sam looked over to the closed door, behind which he heard a loud noise like a small explosion. He could've sworn he saw sparks fly out from under the door. Dean was a familiar, after all, and Castiel was a witch, right? It was definitely a possibility, however insane the odds were. "You don't think…?"

"They Bonded?" finished Gabriel. "That's why I'm asking. It can't be, it's not possible."

"Why do you say that? I mean Dean didn't seem to be drawn to Castiel, but he could've been lying—"

"It's not possible because Castiel isn't a witch."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Then what—"

Gabriel interrupted, "He's the demon I've been slowly selling my soul to."

-x-

"_Where're you going?"_

_Sam froze with his hand on the doorknob, his other hand enveloped in the depths of his coat pocket. Dean would never approve of his intentions. "Out."_

"_Out where?" Like the knowing older brother that he was, Dean seemed to see straight through Sam's poor attempts at evasion. "Sam, turn around." Sam did. They were still in the hotel room; Dean had driven him back three hours ago, and he'd spent the time doing research. "What've you got in your pocket?"_

_Because he knew Dean would never let it slide, Sam reluctantly pulled his hand out of his pocket. In his fingers was clutched a tiny metal box. He handed it to Dean, who opened it, his gaze troubled as he gazed inside._

"_Sammy, these're the ingredients to summon a crossroads demon."_

_Sam's voice felt thick in his mouth. "I know."_

_Dean closed the box, but didn't hand it back. "She's gone, Sam."_

"_She doesn't have to be."_

"_This ain't the way to do it, you know that."_

"_Do you even know where familiars go after they die, Dean?" Dean couldn't answer. "Maybe I'm going to Hell anyway. Maybe it won't change anything."_

"_Or maybe you'll damn yourself for her and she'll hate you for it."_

"_You'd do it for me."_

"_That's not the point." Dean continued to gaze steadily up at Sam, and Sam could see he wouldn't relent any time soon. "I'm not gonna let you do this, Sammy." They glared at each other for a moment before Sam turned and flopped down angrily on his own bed, turning his head away so Dean wouldn't see the tears stinging his eyes._

-x-

The only sound in the room following that statement was that of Castiel banging around in the other room. For a moment, Sam was convinced that Gabriel was tricking him; that he'd grin and yell, "Gotcha!" in an attempt to relieve the tension. He poked tentatively at their bond, probing it for any signs of mischief, but he found to his disbelief that Gabriel was telling the truth. There were some memories there, just under the surface of Gabriel's mind and waiting to be shown to Sam, but the Winchester ignored them, too alarmed to let anything as huge as this to be justified.

"What?" Sam's voice came out louder and harsher than he intended. If there was one thing that both witches and hunters were unanimous on, it was to stay away from demons. He and Dean had never met one in person before as far as they were aware, and they had wanted to keep it that way. Nothing good ever happened to people who met with demons, especially the ones they sold their souls to. It was speculated that, piece by piece, witches' souls were hell-bound the moment they struck the match on their first spell; however, it was common knowledge that witches who personally interacted with demons were sure to wind up dead. "You let a _demon_—?!"

Sam didn't even bother finishing. He turned on his heel and stalked over to the closed door, ignoring Gabriel's protests and a bit of his own better judgment because his brother was wounded and alone behind a closed door with some black-eyed bastard and God only knows what was being done to him.

He burst through the door to see his brother lying flat on his back on a wooden table, stirring weakly and whimpering while Castiel hunched over him, eyes black and chanting in a language even Sam didn't recognize. He didn't appear to have noticed Sam's intrusion until the familiar grasped him around the upper arm, attempting to pull him away.

It was like something snapped. Castiel's face turned sharply to Sam's and he yanked his arm out of its vice and flung it out strongly. Sam felt as though something massive and invisible rammed into him, throwing him back so hard that he hit the wall with a bang, his head cracking against it. He lay slumped there for a moment, Castiel's low, threatening voice swimming in his ears as he struggled to regain his composure. The demon's violent reaction had only further convinced him of its ill intentions, and he was verging on panic now as he fought to regain control over his limbs.

Then Gabriel was there, tipping his head forward and inspecting the back of it, practiced fingers probing the spot where it had been hit. "You dumbass," Gabriel muttered, and Sam was still too stunned to really register the insult. "Do you think I would've let your brother alone in here with Cas if I didn't trust the guy with my own life?"

Sam's eyes found the witch's. "What?"

Gabriel sighed and gave him a bitchface to rival one of his own. The witch's thoughts and memories that Sam had sensed earlier were now pushing insistently against his mind, and this time he let them wash over him.

He didn't get any details, but the overall feeling of trust towards the demon covered him like a warm blanket, soothing his worry. There was a sense of history there between them, and a promise of future revelation, a someday-you'll-understand that Sam reluctantly accepted. He turned his head, looking up at the demon who, he now realized, was doing everything in his power to _fix_ Dean.

"Gabriel." Sam was surprised to suddenly see the demon's eyes back to their usual blue as Castiel looked to his roommate, urgency sharpening his tone. It was like he wasn't even aware of Sam and had no memory of what had just occurred; he ignored the other Winchester completely. "I need sage, lavender, and lamb's blood, immediately."

Gabriel nodded and vanished. Sam, who'd regained enough balance to be on his feet, pulled himself up to stand cautiously by the side of the table. Castiel didn't seem to notice; he appeared distracted. His eyes were black again and he had his hand on Dean's face, fingers pressing into the injured man's forehead as he murmured more phrases in the same strange language Sam had heard him speaking before. The words rose the hairs on the back of Sam's neck and sent a tingle down his spine and gave him the feeling that he was about to be struck by lightning.

Castiel ceased speaking, and the cuts on Dean's face began to glow. Dean's entire body stiffened and he looked like he was holding back a scream. When the light faded and he relaxed, however, nothing had changed, and Castiel slammed his fist angrily against the table with a frustrated yell that made Sam flinch. "They're not closing," muttered the demon fiercely.

"What's not closing?"

"The wounds, they keep bleeding. It must have been the knife—I thought I sensed some kind of black magic, but—"

Castiel cut himself short as Gabriel reentered the scene, carrying bundles of sage and lavender and a jar of what Sam guessed was lamb's blood. Castiel grabbed them immediately and dumped them all into a bowl, stirring and grinding feverishly. He looked stressed; his eyes were wild and frantic and his skin gleamed with a coat of sweat. Sam wondered for a moment why a demon would care so much for a stranger, but then he caught sight of Castiel's palm. It was reddish, like it was burnt. Remembering Gabriel's earlier observation, he looked over at his brother and, sure enough, there was a similar handprint-shaped mark on Dean's shoulder, corresponding exactly to Castiel's. Sam glanced up at Gabriel, who caught his eye, and projected what he had seen through their link. Gabriel's brow furrowed in confusion, but neither of them had any time to wonder.

"Out. Get out. I'll need space and privacy." Castiel shooed them out the door, and the only reason Sam left without hesitation was because the demon was holding a viciously curved blade. He paused for a moment in the doorframe, however, just long enough to watch Castiel cut open his wrist over the bowl, wincing as he added his own blood to the mix.


	5. Chapter 4

Dean didn't ache. That was the crazy thing. He couldn't imagine how he'd survived whatever ordeal had made him pass out in the first place, but even less conceivable was the fact that he woke up like it was any other morning—well, not quite. His skin felt tight and cracked, like it could split over his bones at any moment, and it stung and smarted when he moved. And his head felt funny, crowded, like there was white noise constantly in the background of his thoughts. But there was no strain in his muscles, no ache in his skull, no throbbing from his broken fingers. He felt… whole. Weak, but whole.

His eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his back on a surface that felt too solid to be comfortable, staring up at a ceiling so blackened with soot that he couldn't tell what color it was originally supposed to be. Stifling a groan, he turned his head, forcing himself to swallow despite how dry his mouth was. The first thing that caught his attention was the fading light coming from the window—and, more importantly, the figure standing in front of it. The stranger, who was wearing a pale blue shirt over faded jeans, had his back to Dean and was gazing out the window, but Dean somehow vaguely recognized the general silhouette of him as that of the man who'd appeared to him in that shithole basement. There was something weirdly familiar about his presence, like he was someone Dean already intimately knew.

He tried to ask a question, but though his lips moved, his voice was so hoarse that the only word to come out was, "Sam?"

The figure turned around and, sure enough, it was the blue-eyed man—Castiel—who'd rescued him. "He's downstairs with Gabriel," answered Castiel rather stiffly, in the same low, gravelly voice. "But he'll be very happy to see you're awake."

Dean wanted to ask more questions, but before he could, the stranger had crossed the room to the door and vanished into the darkness beyond its frame. He waited until the man's footsteps faded to silence before pushing himself up into a sitting position. It hurt like hell; his skin had been cut and burned everywhere and the scabs pricked and throbbed when he shifted. His head swam when he moved and he had to press his palm into his brow to keep from falling back onto the table. It wasn't long before he heard Sam's heavy footfalls and saw his brother's tall frame fill the doorway.

"Dean." Sam closed the gap between them in two long strides and pulled his brother into a tight hug that made him wince. It felt like a solid minute before Sam let go, relief in his gaze but concern in his cautious touches and the way his hands drifted hesitantly over Dean's marred skin. "What the hell happened to you?"

Dean didn't want to think about it, and describing it in detail would force him to do just that, so he replied, "Two hunters. They were looking for you." God, his face fucking hurt.

Sam's eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. "For me?"

"Yeah."

The shock drained from his face as he put two and two together. "So they tried to use you to get to me?"

Dean didn't answer, which was plenty an answer for Sam. He smirked a little, changing the subject. "Bet I look like shit, huh?"

Sam didn't smile. "Not as bad as you did last night."

"Last night?"

"You've been out since yesterday, when Castiel brought you back."

Dean's shoulder prickled slightly at the mention of the blue-eyed man. "What's the deal with that guy, anyway?" He pushed himself off the table onto unsteady legs and Sam's arm slipped wordlessly around his shoulders. That was one thing he appreciated about his brother: he didn't tell Dean to stop moving and take it easy because he knew he wouldn't listen.

"I think it'd be better if you talked to him yourself," answered Sam cryptically. Dean felt uneasy at that, but he was too weary to insist on answers. They hobbled across the hall into the bathroom and Sam flipped on the lights so Dean could get a look at himself in the mirror.

…Yeah, he was pretty fucked up. His nose was back to normal and his hand was functional again, but he was covered in scabs, long and thin and crisscrossing in every direction. The insides of his arms and legs were scaly with half-healed burns and they felt rough against his jeans and skin. It looked like the cuts had been healing for longer than just a day—they were already mending, the pinkish skin completely knitted together in places. Still, he'd have difficulty recognizing his own face if he passed it in the streets.

"Castiel said you should heal up fine. No scarring," said Sam reassuringly, apparently reading the very thing in Dean's expression that he was trying to cover up.

Again he felt that faint pins-and-needles feeling in his shoulder and wanted to ask about Castiel. There was something off about this whole thing. He still didn't know what the hell had happened right before he passed out, but he had a feeling that it wasn't anything good. His fingers ghosted absently over his torso, feeling the rough remains of Alistair's sadistic interrogation. The word carved into his chest was still readable, and the sight of it made him inwardly recoil. It reminded him of how close he'd come to giving them what they wanted.

His fingers brushed over his shoulder, which stung at his touch, and he peered closer at its reflection. It looked like an old burn scar, but it was still tender in its freshness, and it wasn't shaped like any kind of burn he'd ever seen. It almost looked like—yeah, it was. It was a handprint. Someone's fucking _hand_ had burned his skin.

Dean turned to Sam, done with examining how broken he was, because he needed some explanations. "Okay, where is this 'Castiel' dude?"

"I am here." The rough monotone spoke from the doorway, where Castiel stood, casting Sam a wary glance before focusing his gaze almost laser-like on Dean.

"Who are you?" barked Dean, more harshly than he'd intended.

"I am the one who raised you out of the pit and made you whole again."

_Okay, what the hell's with the Shakespeare-speak?_ "Yeah, thanks for that."

"We need to talk, Dean. Alone." Castiel threw another pointed glance at Sam, who flashed a tight smile and a nod before leaving, presumably heading back to Gabriel's side. Castiel turned around and somehow Dean knew he was meant to follow, despite no visual cues. After a glance down the hall at Sam's retreating frame, he tailed Castiel back into the room and took his seat gratefully on the wooden table.

Dean hadn't noticed it before, but he seemed to have a sort of… radar for the guy's emotions. It was vague and barely there, but it was substantial enough to stand out. He could tell that Castiel seemed troubled, preoccupied; at the same time, secretive. Intensely secretive. Dean tried to pass it off as just body language, but it was different from that, on a whole other scale. Besides, he could never get this good of a read off of Sam, and he'd known that kid his whole life.

Castiel stood with his back to Dean, facing a second, smaller table that was pushed against the wall. It was strewn with bloody bowls and mortars, extra stalks of various herbs, scattered bones of small animals, and the glass shards of some broken jar or vial, which Castiel busied himself cleaning up. He didn't seem inclined to explain anything.

"Who are you?" Dean repeated.

"Castiel."

Dean rolled his eyes. He could've sworn the bastard was being intentionally cryptic just to annoy him. "Yeah, I figured that much, I mean _what_ are you?" Because he was beginning to think that the man in front of him was more than just a man and that there was a sinister reason as to why he didn't recognize any of the mixtures left over on that messy table. Come to think of it, there were sigils carved and drawn on the walls in writing he'd never seen before, symbols he didn't understand. And still he got that emotional read off the guy, like a heart monitor at a hospital.

He imagined the beeps on the heart monitor increased in tempo as Castiel turned slowly to face Dean, his expression unreadable and devoid of emotion. "I'm a demon."

Dean snorted. "Get out."

Without warning, the light above his head flickered out, casting them into almost total darkness. Before Dean could so much as swear, they flicked back on again, and off and on like lightning flashes. Behind Castiel was projected the black shadows of two enormous wings—or what used to be wings, at least. All that were left of them were the long, thin finger bones, fanning outwards like a bat's, with a few ragged scraps of skin hanging off them like the sails of a ghost ship. And his eyes—they weren't just black; they were darkness. They stretched beyond their sockets like endless caverns.

Dean had scrambled backwards on the table and nearly fallen off the other side of it before he realized it. Then the lights blinked out again, and when they flashed back on, Castiel looked like any other human being: wingless with blue eyes and a blank expression.

Dean felt suddenly vulnerable with no weapons on him; the closest thing in reach was a knife on the other table, but even if he managed to grab it before Castiel could do anything, it wouldn't affect the guy whatsoever—if he was a demon, at least. It was a long moment before he could concentrate enough to find his voice. He had so many questions, protests, exclamations—but the first that sprang to his lips was, "You're possessing some poor bastard?"

Castiel, to his credit, looked vaguely troubled and his gaze dropped. "Yes. A young man named Jimmy Novak." He lifted up the hem of his shirt, showing Dean a scar on his lower abdomen. "He was killed shortly after I claimed him. His soul has moved on."

Dean thought he sensed dishonesty. "Well I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you, really?"

Castiel frowned, as though he'd mapped out their entire conversation and Dean had just said something that wasn't in the script. "I told you."

"Right. And why would a_ demon_ give a rat's ass about me?"

Castiel waited a long moment to answer. "I thought you deserved to be saved."

Dean couldn't process this. Castiel was a stranger—worse than a stranger, he was a demon. Twisted, corrupted, innately evil. How could he think anyone, let alone Dean, deserved the effort that it took to save him? Why would he bother? "A demon with his own sense of justice—just what the world needs."

Castiel ignored the sarcasm. "Anyway, your brother cares very deeply about you, and Gabriel cares about your brother, and I care about Gabriel."

"Why? Is he a demon, too?"

"No." Castiel calmly resumed cleaning up his workspace. "There are things we need to talk about, Dean."

"Yeah, there are," Dean snapped, a little querulously, because he'd just seen the palm of Castiel's right hand and the way he handled things so gingerly with it, and the implication presented by it frightened him. "You wanna explain to me why your hand burned my fucking shoulder?"

"We Bonded." The answer was uttered without hesitation and as matter-of-factly as if he were referring to a pair of distant strangers. "I'm not sure how, but it happened."

-x-

"_You okay, Sammy?"_

_Sam looked away from the window, but he still looked lost. They were on their way to the funeral and Sam hadn't said a word since he woke up that morning. "Yeah, fine."_

_Dean would sooner believe Justin Bieber was John Lennon's reincarnation. "Bullshit."_

_Sam sighed, and after an expectant glance from Dean, admitted, "Look, it's just—it's… I can't explain it. She was—Jess was a part of me, Dean. I know it sounds cliché, but I think I mean that literally."_

_He paused, apparently waiting for some signal that Dean understood, so Dean accommodated, "I'm not following you, but okay."_

"_It's like—imagine if you spent your whole life with white noise in the back of your head. Not too intrusive, but loud enough to notice. And then one day, it just stops and there's nothing but—"_

"—_Silence," interrupted Dean, starting to get it._

"_She was there. She was in my head, she was part of my thoughts. And now she just… isn't."_

_A few miles rolled under the wheels. Dean never really asked Sam about his Bond with Jess—he didn't really ask anyone about any Bond. But now he found himself wondering. "Is that what it means to be Bonded? Never being alone?"_

_Sam looked out the window again. "No. It means never being lonely."_

-x-

"We," Dean chuckled humorlessly, "we _Bonded_?"

"How else would you explain this?" asked Castiel, and it was a moment before Dean realized that he hadn't spoken. His lips hadn't moved, yet his voice had rung through Dean's head as clear as a bell.

Dean sat frozen for so long that Castiel actually paused in his task to throw a concerned look over his shoulder. It was too much; it was all too much. A demon—a fucking _demon_—who lived with his brother's he-witch had dragged his ass out of that torture pit only to end up _Bonded_ to him? The first part of that concept was unbelievable enough. The second was downright impossible. Familiars didn't Bond to demons, at least not any Dean had ever heard of.

Then there was the fact that said demon had just fucking telepathically communicated with him. How did he even do that? Was that just how Bonds worked?

Dean's hand dragged at his face. "Dude, what the fuck."

The demon abandoned the table for the moment, turning to face Dean. If Dean was completely honest, Castiel looked a little shell-shocked, too. The tension in his shoulders was pronounced, and Dean knew from personal experience that a guy didn't turn his back on another guy so much if he wasn't trying to hide something. And there was an undercurrent of something in Castiel's emotional spectrum, something crouched in the dark—a fear kept secret. It grew gradually more pronounced, like bad reception clearing up, until Dean found himself suddenly half-immersed in Castiel's mind. The demon's thoughts and feelings ranged around him, frightened birds that flitted away from his nearness.

It was weird—too weird. He felt like everything that made him _Dean_ would suddenly hurtle forwards into the abyss, and he would be lost in Castiel, just another fragment of the demon's twisted thoughts. He pulled back, hoping to put some mental distance between them, but the demon's mind only seemed to follow him, staying latched onto his like a dog on a leash. It was not until Dean put up some mental blockades of his own—effectively shutting Castiel out—that he finally achieved some semblance of peace.

So, that was it, then—no doubt about it: he was Bonded to a demon.

He could feel something like a panic attack coming on. Well, not really a panic attack—he didn't have panic attacks, and didn't think he ever would—but he did feel very panicky, and the feeling did seem to attack him. His pulse was pounding, hiking up his breathing, and he had to turn away as he swallowed against the anxious twist in his stomach. There was a swarm of questions under the surface of his emotions, massive and swirling but refusing to resolve into anything he could put into words. It was just an overall feeling of not knowing, of the future being unpleasantly foggy.

"I can see you've got a lot to think about," said Castiel in the monotonous tone that Dean was beginning to realize was customary. He could sense something of the demon's intent and started to protest, but Castiel continued, "I'll leave you to mull things over." And before Dean could get out a single word, the demon had vanished.

Dean sighed heavily as he stared for a moment at the place where Castiel had just been standing. _Fucking demons._ The table, he noticed, still hadn't been completely cleaned.

With no desire to wait in the archaic, blood-painted room with nothing but an uncomfortably hard wooden table for company, Dean headed for the door. He had to talk to Sam. It was a slow, ginger progress—the stairs, especially, posed difficulties; his legs were sore and stiff and unrelenting to the descent, but he pressed on. It was just a few aches and pains. He wasn't gonna let something like this handicap him.

As Dean expected, Sam and Gabriel were downstairs in the shop, both seated behind the counter and speaking in low voices, presumably about him. Sam turned as he appeared in the doorway and they both stopped talking. Perhaps it was the dog in him, but his brother always seemed to know whenever Dean was around, even right outside the door.

"Hey." Sam jumped to his feet, but Dean waved him off, and he simply stood by the counter, looking six and a half feet of restless anxiety as Dean hobbled his way over. "How you feeling?"

"Peachy. Gimme a chair."

Gabriel grabbed one and slid it over. The guy looked exhausted, almost as much so as Sam—there were dark rings under his eyes, and all the snark seemed to have drained out of him since the last time Dean had spoken with him. "You talked to Cas?"

"Yeah." Wincing, Dean sank gratefully into his seat and settled back into it with his hands folded in his lap. "That's a real charmer ya got there, Gabriel. Where'd you find him? Craigslist?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "It's not like that, Dean-o."

"No, no, it's cool, I get it. I mean, a witch summons a demon for its power and decides, hey, these things make nice pets, right? I think I'll keep it."

"Castiel is not a wild animal," Gabriel reinforced firmly.

It seemed like he was about to add something else, but Dean, spreading his unclasped hands in a frustrated motion, objected, "He's a demon!"

"Dean…" Sam placed his hand on Dean's shoulder, but it was unneeded; if Gabriel wanted to start a fight, then fine, but Dean was too worn to bother.

"He's my friend!" Though the witch yelled that phrase, it was in a subdued tone that he reluctantly added, "Practically my brother."

Dean had no sympathy to spare for this. He didn't care if they were fucking each other in the closet—Castiel was a demon, there was nothing more to be said. It was Sam, however, who was the voice of reason: "Dean, Castiel's been living with Gabriel for almost ten years now. Ever since he moved in, he hasn't tried anything… demon-y."

"As far as you know," muttered Dean.

"No, I mean it." Sam looked at Gabriel. "Tell him."

Gabriel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in the weary gesture Dean often associated with the phrase _Oh, fuck it_. "Look, honestly, half the time I don't know _what_ Cas gets up to in that room of his. But he's never asked me to help hide a body and he's never gone after me with a knife, and that's good enough for me."

Dean briefly clenched his jaw as sarcasm rose like bile in his throat. "Yeah, great, I'm all better, you've completely changed my mind. 'Cause if this guy meets your standards, he _must_ meet mine, right?"

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sam!" He pushed himself to his feet, a considerably less dramatic action now that he hurt all over. "You know what? I didn't ask for this, okay? I didn't _choose_ this. You and Gabriel and whatever you two've got going on, that's great, but me and Castiel? How the fuck is it even _possible_?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, looking as though he'd expected such an outburst. "We're not sure."

"Awesome. Well, let me know when you figure it out." His gaze switched instead to Gabriel. "I'm crashing on your couch."

As he headed back up the stairs, he heard Gabriel mutter, "What crawled up _his_ ass and died?"


	6. Chapter 5

"What crawled up _his_ ass and died?" muttered Gabriel, but Sam wasn't really listening. He was tensed, watching his brother laboriously climb the stairs, ready to run should Dean fall. But the older Winchester made it to the top without taking a spill, and it wasn't until after Sam heard the upstairs door close that he finally relaxed just a little in his seat.

Sam knew Gabriel wasn't too keen on Dean—well, neither of them were too keen on each other, really. There was something like trepidation on the other end of his Bond, an uneasiness that extended beyond merely Dean's presence and hovered anxiously over the development with Castiel. Sam wished he could reassure Gabriel the same way he'd tried to reassure Dean, but no such words came; Gabriel knew better than to believe that all this would end happily, which was perhaps what made him shy away from thinking about it in the first place.

Sam was snapped out of his reverie by the crinkling of a candy bar wrapper, and before he knew it, a Snickers was being thrust under his nose. He took it, deciding not to question Gabriel's apparently endless supply of candy. "Thanks."

"No problem, kiddo." He didn't have to look over to know that Gabriel had a chocolate bar of his own; his words were muffled by it.

Halfway through the chocolate, he found himself staring at it, lost. Castiel, Dean, the two hunters—there was too much to think about, and eating something seemed to be more than he could process with everything else running around in his head. "Gabriel, something's been bothering me."

"Whassat?" Sam looked around to see that the witch was now leaning back in his seat, his eyes closed and the back of his head cupped in interlaced fingers. It was a strange experience to Sam to see that Gabriel's boundless energy did, in fact, have bounds. As though awareness of Gabriel's exhaustion exposed Sam to it, he suddenly felt tired too and suppressed a yawn. It was no surprise, of course; all three of them had been up the whole night, and only Castiel, being a demon, was unaffected by the sleepless hours.

"Before Castiel kicked us both out of the room, I saw him add some of his own blood to a mixture." Gabriel cracked an eye open, gaze flicking to Sam before up to the ceiling. "Won't that have repercussions? I don't know anything about demon blood, but won't it… affect Dean?"

"Maybe. I dunno." He shrugged with the carelessness of someone who lived by the phrase _not my problem._ "You'd have to ask Cas. I'd say just wait and see."

This didn't assuage Sam's anxiety in the slightest, but his fatigue was overpowering his capacity to want to do anything. He settled back in his chair with a long sigh, Gabriel's descent into sleep pulling him down as well.

-x-

Sam woke to find a lollipop stuck to his forehead.

It was the yawn stretching his facial muscles that made him realize it, though it was a while before he recognized that the tightness around the skin of his forehead was due to something being rather crudely affixed there. It was another while still before he came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, a lollipop. Someone had apparently licked one side before pressing it against Sam's face while he was sleeping.

His initial instinct was to blame Dean since it was exactly the kind of stunt his brother would pull, but that was unlikely—for one thing, the man was probably too tired to bother; for another, where would he get a lollipop? _Gabriel,_ thought Sam, grimacing as he peeled the sticky candy off his forehead and tossed it into the trash, licking his fingers and rubbing the spot clean.

Sunlight made the shop appear friendly once more, and the witch was no longer asleep in his chair. "Gabriel?" called Sam, because the shop should be open at this point in the day and he doubted the witch could be found upstairs.

A lopsided grin appeared around one of the shelves. "Morning, Sasquatch."

"Was the lollipop really necessary?" grumbled Sam, glancing absently in the direction of the staircase.

"You were sleeping soundly and looking very peaceful. How could I resist?" Gabriel vanished back behind the shelf again. "I made some coffee upstairs if you're interested. You look like you need it."

Sam rubbed his face with another yawn. That he did. "Thanks." He headed up the stairs after the coveted coffee and found it, just as Gabriel said, in a smudged pot on the counter. With a dirty look towards the sink full of equally dirty dishes, he poured himself a mug, microwaved it, and took it with a dose of creamer. As he sipped, he wandered over to the sofa and peered over the back to see his brother still asleep on it, one arm draped across his chest and the other dangling limply over the edge of the cushion. His mouth was slightly open and he wasn't quite snoring, but was breathing deeply enough to be heard. He looked no different from any other morning Sam found him—except for the injuries, of course, and that this time it seemed… heavier. It looked like the kind of sleep that could go on for twelve hours and still not be enough.

He looked a lot better, though. Castiel had been true to his word—the scars appeared to be healing. The shallower ones had already been reduced to thin pink lines.

"Your brother still asleep?" asked Gabriel when Sam sauntered back downstairs. The witch was once again standing behind the counter, restocking the cash register. Sam nodded, and there was a moment of silence. Then: "How many spoons do you think we could fit in his mouth before he wakes up?" Sam gave Gabriel a bitchface the likes of which he reserved mostly for Dean.

-x-

_Sam didn't realize how many people Jess had touched in her short lifetime until he saw them all, standing about the coffin-sized hole in the ground. Friends from school, family, neighbors, even clients—all would outlive her. And there was Sam in the middle of it all, telling everyone he was her long-term boyfriend, telling no one he was her familiar, that she meant so much more to him than he said. Some of them knew—the regular clients who showed up and told people they were old coworkers or something—but no one said it. Jess had kept her other life a secret until she died, and so help him, it was going to stay that way._

_Sam said as little as possible throughout the service. He was terrified of saying anything, truth be told—not that he would give anything away, but that his words would melt into incoherency, because what's the point of talking to someone if you know they won't understand you? Dean noticed; he hung around Sam's side constantly and never asked if he was okay—not out loud, at least. Sam could see the question in his face though, every time he looked Sam's way._

_It was an afternoon of clenched jaws and tight lips and was probably one of the most unpleasant experiences Sam had ever gone through. He spent a majority of the service standing awkwardly, a little distance away from the others, with only his brother at his side. Half the time he just wanted to scream what she really meant to him, what kinds of wonderful things she'd used her powers for, but the sheer normalcy of everyone around him was enough to keep his mouth clamped shut._

_He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see one of their regular clients, a wealthy businesswoman with a surprising amount of compassion. "I'm sorry, Sam," she murmured. "I know what she really meant to you."_

_He swallowed and nodded. He didn't say it, but he had a feeling she knew just how grateful he was for someone to say _something_, to understand that Jess had never just been his girlfriend._

-x-

Sam knew Gabriel was the prankster type. Even under the strained conditions of the past two days, that much was obvious. What he didn't realize until later that morning was that the man had a bit of a malicious streak—a very dangerous combination in Sam's opinion. According to Gabriel, he got so much business from what he called "back-room customers" that he could afford to be an asshole to the less occult—and asshole he was. A man looking for something to impress his wife was given a cream that would turn his fingernails blue. A woman looking for a cure for her bad skin was given a bottle of what Gabriel later informed Sam was skunk piss. How he came across either of the unconventional ingredients, Sam didn't want to know.

A second woman approached the counter soon after, a hard set to her face, and said simply, "Do you have anything I could use to teach my husband a lesson about _insisting_ I make breakfast every morning?"

"Yeah, sure," Gabriel replied without skipping a beat. He went to fetch a particular bottle from the back and Sam, fortunately, caught a glimpse of the label that he tore off of it before he got the chance to hand it over.

"Dude," he hissed, fingers tightening around Gabriel's forearm, "you can't give her _rat poison._"

"Why not?" Gabriel looked as careless as he sounded, but there was a slight curl to his smile that suggested he'd let Sam see the label on purpose. After a moment of Sam glaring at him, however, he heaved a dramatic sigh and replaced the formidable bottle, snatching a second one off the shelf, this one rather friendlier-looking.

"Sorry about that, miss." He handed it over with his usual grin. "Trickle some of that on his food and it'll taste like dog shit. Hopefully he'll get the idea."

She returned the smile—albeit coldly—and purchased the bottle without another word.

Sam eyed the witch warily. "Were you seriously gonna give her rat poison?"

"Course not, kiddo. You get arrested for that crap." The grin was back. "Just thought I'd see how alert you are this morning."

Sam grunted, still not quite convinced.

-x-

It was around three o'clock and there was still no sign of Dean, though when Sam checked the sofa, his brother was no longer there. He took a walk to pass the time and wandered the small town for almost two hours, taking note of landmarks and street names and composing a mental map of sorts. He even shifted towards the end of the stroll, taking care to remember the smell of the city. It was the smell of warm summer days, of freshly-cut grass and fried food and picnics; it was the smell of soil and flowers and children playing in the streets. He decided he liked it. Jess had always wanted to live in a little place like this.

He didn't bother changing back once he got back to the shop. He just stood at the door and barked, a few short, deep woofs that echoed down the street. A minute later, Gabriel opened the door. "What is it, Lassie? Did little Timmy fall down the well again?"

Sam gave an annoyed _whuff_ and trotted inside. He followed Gabriel to the cash register where he flopped down on the cool tile floor; being a human was more convenient, but if he was honest, four legs were usually more fun.

A few minutes passed in silence. "Ah," said Gabriel suddenly, looking up from his novel at the jingle of the bell over the door. "Finally."

Sam, who'd begun to doze, lifted his head to see a man who looked remarkably different from their usual customers. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, his dark hair combed back. "Afternoon, Gabriel," he called cheerfully in an English accent, stalking straight to the cash register. He cast a glance at Sam and squatted with a smile, scratching behind his ears in a knowing manner. Sam thumped his tail once. "Moving up in the world, I see." His voice was both sly and gravelly—if snakes could growl, Sam imagined they would sound like this man.

"His name's Sam. Normally he's taller and a little more hairy." Sam cast a doleful look at Gabriel, and the man scratching his ears allowed an amused smile. "Speaking of familiars, where's yours?"

"At home with his wife. Jo's got the flu." The man said it almost snidely, as though he could think of nothing more despicable than such a domestic situation. Perhaps he couldn't. Abruptly, he stood. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

He'd indicated the book still in Gabriel's hands, at which Gabriel glanced as though he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh, yeah." He held it up to show the cover. "Just reading a book about you."

The man cast it a distasteful glance. "_Good Omens_. You know, I can't wear sunglasses anymore because of that book."

"My heart bleeds," Gabriel deadpanned. The witch turned around and led the way towards the infamous back room. The man, after a glance at Sam, trailed after. Sensing that he was meant to follow, Sam assumed his two-legged form, cast his eye about the otherwise empty store, and brought up the rear.

The "back room" was cramped. The walls were lined with rickety shelves of ingredients, the walls were painted a dark color that seemed to suck all the space from it, and perhaps it was Sam's height, but the ceiling felt lower than usual. He had to duck his head slightly just to fit. In the middle of the floor was a table only a foot off the ground, painted with a large quincunx, the same symbol that Jess had often used to amplify magic in certain spells.

"Sam, this is Crowley, he's another witch," explained Gabriel, edging around the squat table with the ease of much practice.

"Another witch?" echoed Sam, and was rewarded with a surprised glance from Crowley, who hadn't realized he'd changed—and, judging by the way his gaze traveled upwards, had sorely underestimated Sam's actual height. Sam addressed Crowley. "You can't do this stuff yourself?"

Crowley's irritation was evident in the way he briefly pursed his lips and cast his eyes skyward in a gesture of outstanding longsuffering. "My abilities are… limited. Gabriel, on the other hand, happens to be buddy-buddy with the power supply." He smirked. "Friends with benefits, in a manner of speaking."

Sam looked to Gabriel and said warily, "Wait, so… you and Cas—?"

He trailed off, and Gabriel seemed to get the idea because he rolled his eyes. "Course not, dumbass. Figure of speech."

Crowley inhaled sharply, inserting himself once more into the conversation. "Now, darling." Crowley stooped down at the table, kneeling opposite Gabriel, who likewise took his seat. "Down to business."

-x-

_The service was over and Sam and Dean had no plans to stick around. They were one of the first to break away, heading immediately for the Impala. The sooner Sam left this place behind, the better, and he was already setting his sights on vengeance._

"_Sam!" Sam turned to see someone jogging after him. It was a middle-aged man, balding, with a salt-and-pepper beard—a fellow witch who occasionally worked with Jess. Sam didn't know him very well, but nevertheless he stopped and waited for the other witch to catch up. "What did she do?" the man asked in a low voice as soon as he was close enough. "To get the hunter's attention, I mean. I thought she only did white magic."_

_Sam's anger flared. Her coffin was about to be lowered, and this man was accusing her of causing her own murder? "She didn't do anything," he snapped._

"_What, the hunter just showed up out of the blue and killed her?" The man sounded utterly shocked, eyes round in disbelief._

"_Yes," Sam gritted out through clenched teeth._

_The man seemed to realize how he'd sounded. "I'm sorry, I'm not blaming her for—I just… wow. She didn't do anything. I mean, she was one of the cleanest witches I knew, and just… Most witches have it coming, y'know? They murder someone, and a hunter comes calling. But Jess…"_

_Sam's temperament softened slightly at the man's apology—he could relate. He'd been mulling over the same thing ever since their house burned down. "I know."_

-x-

"Sam, if you would." Gabriel jerked his head to his right, where there was an empty space by the back wall that didn't look nearly big enough for Sam to occupy. Nevertheless, he clambered his way around the table (nearly knocking over a bottle of what looked like blood as he went) and managed to squat down in the allotted spot, settling in to watch.

The process was short, routine—it was obvious that they'd gone through it before. Gabriel lit the candles set at each corner of the quincunx, fetched a few ingredients off the shelves (with Sam's help), and placed various ones at each corner: a leaf of sage here, a rat tail there. Then, in the center, he placed a bowl containing a few cat bones sprinkled with a small blood offering, courtesy of Crowley. Over the table, Gabriel recited a few phrases in Latin regarding fortune and luck; Crowley joined him for the last few words, and Gabriel dropped a match into the bowl. The bones and blood ignited with a bright flash, and the other ingredients lit up as well, smoldering quietly at their corners. It was a common spell, one that Sam recognized as a simple tipping of the scales, something that turned the odds of prosperity in the favor of the blood-giver. This one in particular was used to enhance financial status: increase sales, bring in customers, et cetera. _He's a businessman,_ Sam realized, _who's getting some extra help from the other side._

They wrapped up the ritual, Crowley bid his farewell, and then the suited man was gone and Gabriel was left to clean up. "Are all the backroom customers like Crowley?" asked Sam as he replaced a few jars to their spots on the shelves.

Gabriel snorted. "Hell no. Crowley is, uh… one of a kind."

"No, I mean—is it always stuff like that? Just people looking for a little extra help?"

Gabriel thought about this as he emptied the bowl's ashen contents into a paper bag. "With the other witches, yeah. But I get a lot of strangers coming through here, asking for something that'll make someone fall in love with them, that'll make them forget an unpleasant incident, that'll get rid of a certain someone… Got a cop in here one time asking—"

"Wait, what?" interrupted Sam, and Gabriel paused. "You mean you've killed people in this business?"

"I occasionally provide willing customers the tools with which to murder someone," Gabriel said evasively.

Sam's throat tightened. _Shit._ This was exactly the kind of thing he would've wanted to know before they Bonded. "Gabriel, you can't just shrug off that kind of thing. You're responsible for_…_ I mean, people have _died_ because of you."

"I'm no more responsible for killing anyone than a gun store is for shooting people," snapped Gabriel. "Look, I don't do this shit for them, okay? I let them know what it'll cost 'em, and then I either give them the things they'll need or refer them to someone who's willing to do it instead."

"But—" Sam wanted to protest that Jess made a living without doing the dirty work, that she only ever helped people, but he remembered bitterly that Gabriel was not Jess.

Gabriel, skimming his thoughts through their Bond, said aloud, "I can't afford that luxury, Sam. Anyway, you can't compare me to that, it's not fair."

Remembering her death, he objected instead, "What about hunters?"

Gabriel flinched slightly, and Sam could tell he was feeling guilty. Accompanied with that, however, was resentment and the thought, _You would know, wouldn't you? _Instead of saying that, though, Gabriel said evasively, "It's a risk I'm willing to take."

Sam fell into hurt silence, offended that Gabriel would take so little consideration of his worries. He was just tired of losing people and why couldn't the witch understand that? And then there was the immediate response that Sam had sensed: _You would know, wouldn't you?_ As though Jess's death was already such a trivial piece of information to him, as though he was sick of hearing about it.

Gabriel seemed to sense where he went wrong and his guilt rose another level. "Hey, relax, wouldja? It's not so bad. People are people, that's just the way it is." The witch clapped him on the shoulder as he passed him out the door and threw over his shoulder, "You, me, and Dean, we'll all go out tonight and grab some drinks. There's this great place…"

Sam, left standing just inside the room, let Gabriel's voice fade as the witch progressed further into the store. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Was Gabriel so careless? So reckless? How could this possibly be the man he was supposed to be Bonded to?


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: i was originally only going to tell the story from sam and dean's perspective but i changed my mind so here's some castiel pov  
also just realized that it's spelled alastair, not alistair**

"Dean."

Dean stirred and twitched.

"Dean, wake up."

He rolled over moodily and Castiel heard him grumble, "Go away, Sam, s'too early in the morning…"

Castiel tilted his head, perplexed as to how Dean could mistake him for Sam. Fatigue-induced delirium, he decided, was a powerful thing. "It is one o'clock in the afternoon, Dean."

The familiar—his familiar, Castiel corrected himself—turned his head, casting a grumpy eye over his shoulder to see the demon sitting on the edge of the coffee table, peering down at him unblinkingly. With an obvious air of reluctance, Dean rolled back over towards the demon and pushed himself stiffly into a sitting position. He'd gotten at least fourteen hours of sleep and somehow still looked exhausted. Alastair's injuries, despite Castiel's best ministrations, were still taking their toll. "Castiel." He grimaced and rubbed his eyes. It sure did take him a long time to get going in the morning, Castiel thought. "What do you want?"

Castiel chose to carefully ignore the weary strain that dragged his words down. "Your wounds need daily treatment until they are healed."

Dean blinked in what Castiel took to be blank surprise. A split-second later, however, the expression was gone as he pushed himself laboriously to his feet, shuffling gingerly around the sofa. "Least lemme get some coffee, huh?"

Castiel wished he had more insight into what Dean was thinking, but for now all he was getting was a vague impression of annoyance and sore muscles. A night of half-decent sleep apparently hadn't done anything for Dean's opinion of him, because the mental block was still there, the only thing currently barring their Bond. Impatient with how long it was taking Dean to get going, Castiel grabbed the bowl of salve that was sitting next to him on the coffee table and followed his familiar to the kitchen. The salve was a mixture of herbs that had been mashed and pounded together with a mortar until they became a greenish paste; they were the first part of an experimental healing spell that was a (hopefully) more powerful version of the one he'd performed that first night. That one, after all, had been done in a rush; he'd had time to consider his options with this one, however, and it would help Dean's wounds to heal more quickly.

While Dean waited with tapping foot for the coffee to percolate, Castiel scooped his fingers into the salve and began to spread it in a thin layer over one of his shoulders. "Dude," Dean protested, apparently not pleased with Castiel's assistance as he snatched his arm away. He looked the demon up and down, a bit of an offended look on his face. "I can do it myself, okay?" He stuck out his hand, and Castiel, after a long look, handed him the bowl. _He has a fierce independent streak when it comes to physical aid,_ Castiel noted, wondering offhand whether he should write things like this down.

Dean took over the task of applying the salve, casting Castiel another furtive glance as he did so. After a moment, he said, "Look, I dunno what they teach you downstairs, but up here there are these things called 'boundaries' and 'personal space.'"

Castiel knew what those things were, but having never been spoken to about them prior, he didn't quite understand the point Dean was attempting to make. He took some of the mixture himself and began to spread it over Dean's opposite shoulder, figuring that four hands were faster than two. "What about it?"

Dean jerked away from the contact for a second time, but this time he moved to stand an extra foot away from Castiel, and the look on his face was… well, Castiel couldn't really describe it. Mostly, it looked alarmed, but also—scared? Disgusted? "This is exactly what I'm talking about, okay? Personal space." With a sweep of his hands he outlined a three-foot-wide circle encompassing where he stood. Though he had practically spat the last two words, it was with more control that he continued, "I dunno how clear you are on social protocol, but generally when you're talking with someone you don't know very well, you don't invade this space, got it?"

Castiel felt a little guilty for causing Dean irritation but he appreciated the information; despite having been walking the earth for several decades now, Castiel was still unclear on the details of social interaction. _Personal space,_ he noted, resolving that he would indeed have to write these things down. He nodded, which seemed to put Dean at ease, and wiped his hands conclusively on a towel.

"Why are you helping me, anyway?" Dean had continued spreading the ointment, but he looked up at Castiel curiously. "Because last time I checked, demons don't just help people."

Castiel had to wonder why Dean was questioning it. The first time he'd helped Gabriel, the witch had taken it with nothing more than fervent thanks. Besides, he had already told Dean why the night before, but apparently Dean needed another reason. "I felt it," he eventually admitted. "The pain you were experiencing, it became my own from the moment we Bonded. I felt all of it, because you felt it—your cuts, your burns, your smashed fingers, your broken nose. So I did everything in my power to make it stop."

Some of the tension drained from Dean's shoulders, but there was still sharpness to his tone as he asked, "You healed me so you would feel better?"

"That wasn't the only reason," replied Castiel, following the motion of Dean's hands with his eyes for a moment, "but it seems to be the only one you're willing to accept." The demon circled around to look him in the eye again, and Dean's jaw clenched, but Castiel, for the moment, ignored the "personal space" lecture that was still ringing in his ears. "Why is it so hard for you to believe that I simply want to help you?"

"Because you're a demon!" spat Dean.

Castiel stared at him for a moment longer, the exclamation lending a hard set to the demon's brow. _You know nothing of demons,_ he wanted to say, _and nothing of me._ But he bit back the words; they would only inspire more questions, more distractions. He wanted to get this spell over with. "Finish spreading that salve, then meet me in my room. There's a ritual that has to be performed in order for the herbs to work."

When Dean appeared in the doorway of his room five minutes later, Castiel was scrawling down the two things regarding Dean that he had already noted. He slipped the sheet of paper into his back pocket, resolving to keep it on him at all times; as he discovered more, he would write more. On the table were runes drawn in fresh blood; Castiel had just traced them with his finger as a quill and his blood as ink. In the center of it was a bowl half-filled with the same ingredients he'd used the night before: holy oil and demon blood.

"What kinda sigils are those?" asked Dean suspiciously, gesturing at the table.

Castiel didn't even glance at them. "Enochian."

"Enochian," repeated Dean skeptically. "Like angel-language Enochian?"

"Yes."

Dean snorted. "Come on, man, you know angels don't exist."

Castiel knew for a fact that Dean was wrong there, and his expression as he looked up at the familiar must have shown it, because he was rewarded with a flash of doubt flickering across Dean's face. "Stand here," the demon directed, pointing at the allotted area.

Dean stood there. Castiel chanted a few phrases in Enochian; then he dipped his finger in the bowl and, without warning, reached across and used his bloody finger to paint a symbol on Dean's chest.

"Whoa, what—" protested Dean, but Castiel wasn't listening; he spoke another phrase in the angel language and placed his hand flat against Dean's chest, over the symbol, which glowed white and vanished. Castiel felt Dean tense, but shortly after he pulled his hand away, the familiar relaxed, and Castiel knew the spell was working already. "The hell was that?"

"It's the only healing spell I could come up with that seemed to work," Castiel explained calmly. It was true; all conventional methods had failed, due to whatever black magic was involved with the knife. "A combination of angel spellwork and demon blood. Very powerful, one of my own design." Also true; over the past several years, Castiel had plenty of time and opportunity to experiment with spellwork and learned an impressive amount—after all, not every demon knew how to combine Enochian with demonic witchcraft.

Castiel glanced up from the lid he was twisting back on a jar to see that Dean seemed to be having difficulty processing all this—an observation easily made without being Bonded to him. His prolonged silence was plenty enough evidence that he was mulling something over. Finally, Dean asked, "How come you know so much about 'angel spellwork', anyway?"

Castiel, who was turned away from Dean, allowed himself a small, grim smile as he thought back, centuries ago, to a simpler time when his wings were something to be proud of. "Call it personal experience."

There was another moment of silence, during which Castiel replaced the jar to its original spot on a shelf. When he turned around, Dean was staring at him in open disbelief. "How powerful a demon _are_ you?" he asked, voice low.

Castiel almost laughed. "Not very."

"You snapped that hunter's neck without even touching her."

"Most demons are capable of telekinesis."

Dean began to help Castiel clean up. He put a few of the supplies back in the wrong places, but Castiel didn't care enough to correct him. "Who was she?" Dean's voice was almost a mutter, as though he was afraid of someone hearing them. Perhaps he was.

Castiel, however, was expecting this question to come up sooner or later and would prefer to answer it later than sooner. He pretended not to have been listening. "We're out of lavender," he announced, peering at the sprigs of dried herbs nailed to the wall and noting the empty space where the lavender usually hung. Then he turned to Dean. "Would you mind fetching some?"

"Yes," Dean snapped immediately, and Castiel supposed he could've rephrased that request in a more appealing way.

The demon gazed evenly at his familiar for a moment, realizing that Dean would want answers eventually, and would only get more frustrated if he was denied them. "If you replenish my stocks of lavender, I'll tell you what I know of the hunters."

Dean's expression was hard as he considered the offer, and for a moment, Castiel thought he wouldn't take it; then he relented, "Fine."

Castiel watched with immense curiosity as he crossed over to the window, opened it, and, in one smooth motion, abandoned his two-legged form for the alternative: a large red-tailed hawk. In the span of a few flaps of wings, he was gone.

-x-

_Castiel knew he had been human at some point, only briefly between Heaven and Hell. It hardly seemed worth the Fall now, considering he could no longer remember a single second of it. His memory just went straight from angel to… well. Hell is pretty straightforward like that._

_Speaking of Hell, he had just crawled out of it and was scudding through the woods, senses alert and extended. In the smoky, ethereal form that came so naturally to demons, he could sense how far away the nearest humans were as though he had radar technology embedded in his brain. That brought him to his first order of business: finding a meatsuit._

_It didn't take long. Jimmy Novak and his family—his wife and daughter—lived a bit of an isolated life, hidden away in the woods not far from where Castiel surfaced. For Castiel, they happened to be the closest living things available for possession. He considered the wife, in the middle of cooking a meal, and the daughter, working on homework in the other room; it was Jimmy he decided to take, however, with no particular reason for the decision other than that he liked the look of him better. He crept up the ventilation shaft, pooling into the sitting room where Jimmy was shuffling through paperwork. Before the man quite knew what was happening, black smoke was pushing itself into his mouth, forcing itself down his throat until it became him._

_Jimmy Novak, as it turned out, was a pastor—an unexpected bump in the road, but otherwise a challenge Castiel tackled willingly. After a brief mental struggle, Jimmy was his. The man had a strong will and he seemed to know what Castiel was, but the demon wasn't worried. The man was under his control now._

_The first thing Castiel did was head into the kitchen. Jimmy was awake in his mind, restless, angry, scared, and even more so when Castiel reached for one of the steak knives on the counter and headed for Jimmy's lovely wife. A few seconds and a scream later and she was dead on the floor, a pool of blood gathering around her slashed throat. Castiel took a deep, contented breath through his nostrils, relishing the smell of blood and the feeling of Jimmy practically screaming in his head. It felt good to walk the earth again—the other demons weren't kidding. After countless decades of torture and brimstone, it was a wonderland up here._

"_Dad?!" The surprised shriek came from behind him and he turned to see Jimmy's daughter, Clare, standing in the doorway, her terrified gaze flicking from her dead mother to her father's blood-splattered hands. Castiel's mouth curled in a cruel smile he simply couldn't hold back. His eyes flashed black and he advanced on the girl—_

_There was a sudden surge of emotional adrenaline on Jimmy's part and Castiel only had a split-second's warning before he was suddenly grappling with the man again, fighting for control. He faltered in his steps, the knife still in his hand. He fought to subdue Jimmy, struggled in vain to take over the man's limbs once more, but Jimmy was strong—more than that, he was desperate now. His wife was dead and his daughter in danger—Castiel had underestimated his strength of character, and now he was fighting to get his body back, fighting against Castiel's will. And he was winning._

_The cycle generated pain for both of them and Castiel withdrew for a moment, considering his options. He could wait until Jimmy's emotional distress died down and reclaim him, at the risk of it happening again; he could vacate the man and possess his daughter; or he could take the body of the dead woman on the kitchen floor. Before he could come to a conclusion, Jimmy made the decision for him. The man, his muscles straining against the effort of holding back a demon, turned the bloody knife around in his hands. Castiel didn't bother trying to stop him as he plunged the knife into his own stomach, twisting it, under the vain notion that by killing himself, he would stop Castiel._

_Instead, of course, his soul slipped from his body, leaving it wonderfully, blissfully vacant. And really, it would be a shame to let Clare live a life as an orphan when Castiel could so easily give her eternal peace above with her mother and father…_

-x-

Castiel looked up as Dean landed on the windowsill, a branch of lavender clutched in his beak. The demon wordlessly held out his arm, and he imagined Dean cast him a skeptical look—if it was even possible for a bird to convey that sort of emotion—before flapping to his arm and perching on it. He seemed to be digging in his talons far more than was necessary, but Castiel didn't mind.

Castiel look the lavender and set it aside before regarding him for a moment, his gaze travelling over Dean's feathers (still slightly ruffled and sick-looking from the beating he'd taken only a couple days prior) and down to his reddish-brown tail before flicking back up to his eyes. Hawks were hunters and, in Castiel's opinion, noble animals. "It suits you," was all he said. Dean took off from his arm and in a blink was a man again.

"'It suits you'? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It was a compliment, Dean." Castiel broke off a sprig of lavender and added it to the pile of ingredients he had compiled.

Dean didn't press the matter. "I got you your lavender, now give me some answers."

And here it was; the question Castiel had been hoping to avoid. He had been running over the answer he would give in his mind for the past several minutes; after a few moments, he recited, "You said their names were Lilith and Alastair. I've never heard of them, but I asked around last night. According to Uriel, they were siblings… very close. Hunters. Alastair is well-known among the lower-level demons as being a vicious torturer, and Lilith has a notoriously short temper. According to gossip, there are only so many creatures who walk away from them alive." He was aware that Dean had no clue who Uriel was, but it was probably better that way. Uriel was the type of demon you didn't want to know personally.

Dean arched his eyebrows in realization at the last sentence. "I've got street cred."

Castiel didn't understand his meaning and allowed his confusion to show on his face. "I don't understand." Dean shook his head dismissively, so Castiel continued, "That isn't all. Their father is a very famous hunter named Lucifer."

"Lucifer?" repeated Dean incredulously. "Man, I bet he was _really_ popular with the other kids…"

"He is not to be trifled with," warned Castiel sternly, though he had to agree with Dean. He had known Lucifer once, a long, long time ago, and naming a child after the Angel of Light was foolishness—a little pretentious as well, if he was being completely honest. "In his time, Lucifer was the most feared hunter in North America. He's slaughtered hundreds of creatures, put almost as many souls to rest, and has a list of demons in Hell a mile long who'd love to get their hands on his soul."

"Are you one of them?"

Castiel paused. Lucifer had caused him grief in the past, but the hunter was not directly responsible for any of his suffering. "No."

"You said 'was.' What happened to him?"

"He retired."

"You're joking. A hunter, retire?"

Castiel knew how unlikely it sounded; hunters practically lived by the principle of being a hunter for life—mostly because they died so young. "There are many rumors surrounding his disapperarance. To my understanding, he was grievously injured and retreated to nurse his wounds, allowing his children to carry on the legacy. No one has any proof, though, because no one can find him. Many believe him to be dead."

Dean sat silent for a moment as he put the pieces together. "So you killed the daughter of the most feared hunter in North America?"

Castiel pursed his lips for a moment, ashamed at his lack of caution in the task of rescuing Dean. "Yes."

"What about Alastair? Is he still alive?" Castiel nodded, and a troubled expression sobered Dean's features. "We're fucked."

"Not necessarily. Uriel was able to help me track down Alastair to his hotel room. He managed to possess a maid last night long enough to plant a hex bag under the doorstep. If all went according to plan, Alastair is dead as we speak."

Castiel wasn't sure what he'd been hoping for, but he felt puzzled as a mixture of dread, anger, and shock flitted across Dean's face, and for a long moment, the familiar said nothing. "You," Dean shifted his feet testily, "you killed him?"

The demon blinked. That was what he'd just said, wasn't it? "Yes, to cover our tracks."

"But you just… I mean, you fucking killed a guy in cold blood."

Castiel felt an involuntary surge of annoyance and, before he could bite back the words, remarked sarcastically, "Hello, I'm Castiel, I'm a demon."

Dean snapped his mouth shut, his gaze suddenly hard and cold, and Castiel experienced a moment of deep, sincere confusion despite knowing that it was the wrong thing to say. Dean appeared hurt by the fact that Castiel had killed a man—not just a man, but the man responsible for a great amount of pain on Dean's part. Castiel had expected him to be grateful. Castiel had expected him to agree that Alastair deserved his fate. Nevertheless, he felt an undeniable stab of guilt at the look on Dean's face. He had done wrong by his familiar, and despite his reasons for doing it, he felt the inexplicable need to make it right.

Castiel, however, was stubborn. Because it was true, he insisted, "I did it to protect you, Dean. To protect all of us. If Alastair managed to contact his father, to tell him what happened to Lilith and who did it, we wouldn't last the week."

"Okay, but _kill_ him?"

Castiel's practicality took over. "What would you have me do? Kidnap him and keep him locked up somewhere until he died of old age, keep a constant monitor on his communications with the outside world? Be reasonable, Dean. It was the simplest solution, if not the most honorable."

"No. There was another way around this, there always is."

"Why are you so adamant about defending his life? Perhaps you don't remember, but he did torture you for four hours and would've allowed his sister to kill you." Dean started to protest, but Castiel, another thought occurring to him, continued, "Speaking of which, you don't seem too torn up about _her_ death. Is her life not worth as much to you?"

"That's different! That was spur-of-the-moment, but this—this ain't right. I mean, practically killing a man in his sleep. And you, you can't even pretend to show remorse?"

Now it was Castiel's turn to go as icy and still and silent as a stone. Again, he wanted to snarl at Dean that he had no idea, that he knew nothing. But how could he explain what really went on? How could he explain that almost all of his time spent walking the earth has been a battle between him and his guilt, and it's only by quelling down said guilt that he can continue living? He couldn't say anything. Neither could Dean, apparently, who held his gaze, jaw jutting defiantly. Finally, the demon glanced down at the ground and changed the subject, despite knowing how it would infuriate Dean: "I have work to do. I'll be back later tonight."

This time it was Dean's turn to vanish on Castiel, because in the moment it took for Castiel to grab the ingredients he'd gathered (including Dean's lavender), the familiar had transformed again and flown out the window on a whisper of wings.


	8. Chapter 7

When Dean returned several hours later, the window was still open, but Castiel hadn't returned. Dean couldn't say he minded. He knew the guy was a demon; he knew he should expect stunts like this in the future. But he was still completely thrown off by the bastard's apparent lack of remorse. _Fucking demons._ He'd spent most of his time on the wing soaring down the Grand Canyon—it was a place he often went when he was brooding. Familiars had the ability to teleport when in their animal forms, and Dean would be damned if he didn't take advantage of the one silver lining of being half-animal for most of his life.

In the sitting room, Sam was sitting stiffly on the sofa, his nose in a book, and Gabriel was channel-surfing absently. They seemed to be doing their best to ignore each other, and an uncomfortable silence pervaded the room despite the noise from the TV.

"Uh," said Dean, not really sure how they'd react to his presence.

Sam looked up, and Dean could tell he wasn't pissed—he was just worried about something. Dean could read those subtle lines on his face like a book and he recognized it immediately as Sam's something-is-wrong-and-I-can't-talk-about-it face. Gabriel, meanwhile, seemed to be doing his very best to act as though nothing was wrong.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Sam frowned like he was about to say something annoying, but before he could answer, Gabriel said, "We're going out."

Dean paused. "Is this a confession or something? Because, I mean, if you two wanna go Burt and Ernie, I'm totally cool with it."

Gabriel cast a casual glance over at Sam, and Dean could've sworn his gaze wandered suggestively. "Good to know," he said, standing, "but no. We're going to a bar."

Sam stood as well, and Dean abruptly came very close to giggling in an unmanly fashion—he'd forgotten how much shorter Gabriel was than Sam. Nevertheless, he was cautious. "Why?"

"Drinks. Merriment. Mingling with civilization." He smirked. "I promise it'll be fun."

"Your definition of fun and mine are two really different things," grumbled Dean, but he reluctantly followed the pair out the door.

-x-

They took the Impala, since Gabriel didn't own a car; and since it was the Impala, Dean drove with Sam in the passenger's seat and Gabriel in back giving directions. The bar Gabriel was taking them to was about twenty minutes away, in the thick of the city. Though they passed several inviting-looking places along the way, Gabriel hardly cast them a glance—he seemed intent on one particular bar which was in what looked like the red light district.

Sam seemed to be having the same concerns as Dean, because he spoke up, "Uh, Gabriel? I know you mentioned 'merriment,' but—"

"We're here. Pull in there," interrupted Gabriel, pointing down a very shady-looking alley. There were other cars there which made Dean feel a little better, but he still couldn't escape the notion that this was the kind of place where you were likely to be shot just for being there.

After closing up and locking the car, Gabriel led them towards a very old-looking, slightly rusted metal door that was deep-set into the brick wall. A figure detached itself from the shadows there and resolved itself into a tall, menacing-looking black man, his clothes tight against his arms and torso to show an outline of impressive musculature.

"They're with me, Gordon," Gabriel said before the man could say anything. He nodded almost reluctantly and let them pass, but the way he eyed them gave Dean the notion that he would've loved an excuse for a fight.

A rickety staircase creaked under their feet, only dimly lit by the warm yellow light seeping around the corner. Despite his wariness and the distinctly untrustworthy feel to the place, Dean found himself admittedly curious as to what he would find at the bottom of the stairs. Gabriel's motives were questionable under any circumstances, but just maybe this place would be alright…

It wasn't a brothel or a drug den or an underground casino. Actually, it looked like any other dive bar Dean had been to—except that this one was actually decently lit and there seemed to be an excess of animals. A brown, scruffy mongrel of a dog dashed past their feet as they stood in the doorway and a raven cawed from the rafters; Dean thought he even spotted a pair of yellow eyes glinting from atop a cupboard. Everyone else was sitting at tables or stools or booths, enjoying drinks and meals and talking in low voices. Overall, the place had an old rustic look with a comforting, homey atmosphere. Not at all what Dean was expecting.

Then his other senses hit him. The whole room was emanating power, the people inside like some kind of thrumming electricity. Witches and familiars, every single one of them, even the sandy-haired man mixing a drink at the counter.

"Gabriel, what is this place?" Sam sounded both as amazed and as distrustful as Dean felt.

"Witch's Brew," answered the witch with a lopsided smile. "Aptly named, don'tcha think?"

Dean pursed his lips at the pun and didn't grace it with a response.

"Hey, by the way, where's Castiel? He didn't answer his phone."

Dean snorted, untroubled. "How am I supposed to know?"

"You're Bonded to him, dumbass." Gabriel gave him a look like he couldn't believe someone as thick as Dean existed. Then he shrugged to himself. "Come on, I'll show you around."

No one paid them much mind as Gabriel led them to the bar at the back, at which was seated a woman with a long sheet of red hair. A split-second after they sat down, the same grubby dog from before leapt up onto one of the empty seats. Dean cast it a wary look before his attention was drawn away from it by Gabriel calling out abruptly, "Hey, jackass!"

The sandy-haired man—Dean decided to refer to him as Jackass—glanced, unconcerned, in Gabriel's direction. Once he finished mixing his drink and handed it off to the red-haired woman (god_damn_, was she a looker), he wandered vaguely over, eyes sliding in a bemused fashion over Sam and Dean. Dean was momentarily distracted by his V-neck, which seemed to be doing its best impression of the Mariana Trench. "Hello, shitface." Dean was somewhat surprised to hear the words uttered in a crisp British accent. Even more surprising was the greeting itself, coupled with the way Jackass leaned casually against the counter. "Come to show off your latest fuckbuddies?"

Dean blinked and exchanged a glance with Sam, who looked equally disturbed. Gabriel, on the other hand, laughed. "What, these two idiots? Hell no."

A look of shocked recognition flashed over Jackass's face. "Oh." His gaze turned to Sam, then back to Gabriel, and his mouth curled up a little in a smile. "Oh, I _see._ You two're Bonded."

Gabriel smirked lazily. "Sam, Dean, this is Balthazar. Balthazar, this is Sam and Dean."

Dean snorted involuntarily and took his seat as Balthazar reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle of rum and some kind of reddish juice. "Balthazar?" he repeated incredulously. _What kind of parent names their poor schmuck of a kid 'Balthazar'?_

Balthazar's gaze turned sharply to Dean, but his expression changed as he got a closer look at Dean's face and he hesitated in the process of mixing a drink. "What happened to _you_?" he asked, a little disdainfully.

Dean, remembering what Castiel had told him earlier regarding his recent experiences, tilted his head in a cocky manner. "Alastair."

He was rewarded by a shocked expression from Balthazar, whose eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead. "The hunter?" The continued look on Dean's face was enough of a confirmation. Balthazar grunted, reluctantly impressed, and added sugar to the drink. "You should be dead."

"I got away."

Gabriel snorted loudly. "Oh, _please_. You were rescued, princess."

"What, by you?" Balthazar sounded skeptical.

"Nope. Castiel."

"You're joking. He actually left his room?" Balthazar threw the question over his shoulder as he turned towards the mini fridge.

"Even better. He—" Gabriel was cut off when Sam elbowed the witch hard in the ribs and muttered something urgent in his ear. Gabriel shrugged, whispered something nonchalant in reply while rubbing the place he'd been jabbed, and turned back to Balthazar, looking irritated from the interruption. Sam, after a glance over at Dean, also took his seat, looking uneasy. "He and Dean Bonded."

"But Castiel is a demon."

"That he is." Gabriel's face was strangely unreadable.

Balthazar again turned a subtly surprised look to Dean, who shifted his weight in a self-satisfied way. Then he remarked sarcastically, "I bet that's been a bundle of laughs so far."

Dean's ego wilted and he grimaced. Clearly Balthazar was acquainted with Castiel. "Yeah, it's fantastic," he said, none too cheerfully.

"Hey, Balthazar, can I get some Jack over here?" drawled out a voice to Dean's right, and he looked over to see a rather mangy-looking man in the same place the brown mutt had hopped up to a minute earlier. He was sporting a denim vest over a sleeveless shirt and a rather impressive mullet.

Without bothering to finish their conversation, Balthazar nodded and broke away to fetch the man his drink, leaving the pink one he'd been working on in front of Gabriel, who took it and sucked on the straw eagerly.

"Dude." Dean was eyeing the drink with arched eyebrows. It was in a pear-shaped glass with a paper umbrella, a strawberry, and a bendy straw. A fucking _bendy straw._ "Is that a _daiquiri?_"

Gabriel shrugged shamelessly. "What? I've got a sweet tooth." Still sipping at his drink (which probably had more sugar in it than the typical daiquiri), he dug a few bills out of his pocket and left them on the counter.

"So…" Sam spoke up, before Dean could say anything else. "You and Balthazar." Gabriel looked at him, eyebrows quirked, apparently not getting the implication in that remark—actually, Dean realized, he probably knew perfectly well what Sam meant to ask, but just wanted to mess with him. "You guys got history?"

The sharp bark of laughter that burst from Gabriel made Dean jump in alarm. "Yeah, I'd say we got history!" His laugh faded into a soft chuckle as he punched Sam in the shoulder. "We dated for a couple months. Just broke up three weeks ago—it was a mutual thing. Felt too much like incest, y'know?"

Sam considered this for a moment before saying dryly, "No, I really don't know."

Gabriel sighed and tried to think of a way to explain something that he understood perfectly. "It's like... like when you're friends with someone you can't stand. You can handle occasional doses of them, but being strapped to them twenty-four-seven is just too much." Sam's expression cleared, and Dean thought he understood, too. "Balthazar and I are fine if we only see each other a few nights a week, but when we spent all our free time together, we went batshit. He chucked a plate at my head once. …Though that _may_ have been because I set a pair of his boxers on fire." Gabriel shrugged nonchalantly, evidently not broken up about it at all. He didn't seem to notice the open-mouthed grin Sam was sending his way, though his face took on a rather more mischievous expression as he added, "He was _fantastic_ in bed, though."

Dean couldn't say he was surprised by that last bit of information. Gabriel wasn't exactly shooting rainbows out his ass, but he seemed like the kind of guy that did what he wanted in both senses of the term—of course, the way he'd looked at Sam earlier had been a pretty good indication, too. Still, why Balthazar? Dean wasn't sure what Gabriel had seen in the guy. He looked alright, he supposed, and the accent might even sound dreamy to certain ears, but Dean, personally, couldn't wrap his head around it. As Balthazar turned and Dean's eyes wandered to his ass, he felt a familiar tug of shame and looked away, annoyed at himself.

Dean tuned back into the conversation when Gabriel pointed past him, at the man with the mullet and whiskey. "That's Ash. I know he doesn't look it, but he's a genius. He's invented more spells in his lifetime than all the witches here put together." Dean and Sam both regarded the other familiar in surprise—Gabriel was right; he sure didn't look it. Wiry and a little greasy, he looked every bit a scruffy mutt in human form as he did in dog form.

Apparently giving them the low-down, the witch turned in his seat, regarding the rest of the room spread out before them and began to point at various other witches and familiars, giving them brief tidbits of information on each. "That's Anna, sitting over there." He pointed to the redhead. "Pretty powerful witch. Great kisser." Dean glanced at Sam to see his brother's eyebrows jump up a little and couldn't help a smirk. He and Gabriel might not get along well, but he had to admit the witch had style—and, clearly, not many limits.

Gabriel angled his finger across the room, peering down it like a sniper down a rifle's shaft to pinpoint one of two twenty-somethings sitting across from each other on the opposite end of the room and sharing a quiet conversation. "That's Adam," he said, pointing to the one on the left with shadows under his eyes and ruffled dirty-blond hair. "And that's Samandriel." _Samandriel? What's up with the names around here?_ The other kid looked a little dorkier—though that might've been because of the Weiner Hut uniform he was sporting; it appeared he hadn't gotten around to changing out of it yet. "They're Bonded." Dean had to wonder how that worked. Did Samandwhatever use his witch powers to grill hot dogs, or what?

"Sam, you already know Crowley." Gabriel pointed out the sharp-dressed witch sitting alone at a booth. As though saying his name summoned his attention, Crowley glanced over at them and winked lazily. Dean couldn't help a noise of disgust. His disdain was forgotten, however, as the bird perched on Crowley's shoulder turned its head towards them and Dean did a double-take when he saw that it was a Great Horned Owl.

"And _that,_" Gabriel's eyes followed a busty, black-haired woman as she walked by, hips swaying, "is Pamela Barnes." And without further ado, the witch left his seat at the bar and chased after her, stocky form brimming with overconfidence as he ran a hand suavely through his hair. There were plenty of other people in the bar, but it was clear from their tour guide's exit that the crash-course was over.

Sam watched Gabriel leave with a scoff and a lingering hint of concern in his eyes. Dean, however, nudged Sam and gestured towards Crowley. "Hey, Sam, does that owl look familiar to you?"

Sam followed his gaze, and the lines in his brow smoothed as whatever had been on his mind was temporarily erased from memory. "Yeah. Yeah, he sure does."

-x-

"_His name's Bobby Singer," said Sam for the umpteenth time. "One of Jess's contacts referred me to him. Said he can help."_

"_How?" Dean asked suspiciously, his brooding gaze trained on the road before him._

"_I dunno, but it's the best lead we've got."_

"_This whole thing sounds suspicious, Sammy. I don't like it."_

_Sam rubbed his temples, attempting to keep his frustration at bay. Dean had made this clear from the moment Sam first told him about the conversation he'd had with one of Jess's associates. The man hadn't specified anything about this "Bobby Singer" other than that he could help, but that was good enough for Sam. It wasn't, apparently, enough for Dean, who seemed to be under the impression that it was some kind of trap. Nevertheless, they set their course for South Dakota—though mostly because Sam threatened to leave and pursue the lead on his own whether Dean accompanied him or not._

_They arrived at Singer Auto late that night and were accosted by a very friendly Rottweiler who, of course, loved Sam on principle. Unfortunately, the dog barked a few times—happily, but still loud enough to attract the attention of one Bobby Singer._

_The man—a familiar, Dean realized—burst open the front door, shotgun in hand, head swinging wildly about until his gaze landed on the two of them. He leveled the gun at them for a moment, but Dean could tell it was more out of caution than any sort of threat. "Who're you?" called the man gruffly, all facial hair and baseball cap._

_It was Sam who answered, "I'm Sam and this is my brother, Dean. Rufus Turner said you could help us." The man—Bobby—seemed to flinch and gripped his gun tighter, but otherwise didn't respond. "I'm looking for a hunter," Sam said quickly as Dean shifted his footing defensively. "He killed my witch, Jess. I want to find him for retribution."_

_Bobby was silent for a moment, and though it was dark, Dean thought he saw the man's gaze flick downwards to the dog. "Well, come in, then," he grunted, dropping the gun to his side._

"_What, just like that?" Dean muttered, and Bobby must've heard him, because the man gestured to the dog._

"_Rumsfeld likes you. That's good enough for me."_

-x-

"Sam, you're looking well." The dark-haired man—Crowley—addressed Sam directly, his tone slick and his expression almost smiling. His gaze slid over to Dean. "Who's your friend?"

Forgetting for a moment about Bobby, Dean looked incredulously at Sam. "You know this guy?"

Sam nodded dismissively with an I'll-tell-you-later look on his face. To Crowley, he explained, "This is my brother, Dean."

Before Crowley could add anything else, the owl on his arm hopped onto the booth next to him and, in a blink, became Bobby Singer. "Thought I recognized you two idjits."

Dean couldn't help a grin because Bobby looked exactly the same as he remembered: scruffy beard, ball cap, flannel, gruff exterior, even gruffer interior—it was all still there. He heard a huff of shocked delight from his left and knew Sam had come to the same conclusion. Bobby stood and pulled them both into an embrace; when he released them, he was smiling. "It's good to see you boys." Crowley, Dean saw at the edge of his vision, was rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, Bobby, you too." Dean could hear the amazed smile in Sam's voice. The three of them took a seat at the booth, Crowley looking rather disdainful at being caught in such a reunion.

"So you, uh, Bonded, huh?" Dean glanced at Crowley, who gave a little wave, and had to wonder how a guy like Bobby wound up Bonded to a guy like him.

"Yeah, can't say I was expecting it," grunted Bobby, casting a glance in Crowley's direction, "man my age, y'know? But he ain't half-bad."

"You're too kind, Bobby," Crowley remarked dryly.

"So how've you been?" asked Sam, still in that tone of wonder. His gaze flicked over to Crowley and back. "I heard you got married."

Bobby offered a small smile at the mention of his wife. "Sure did. Remember Ellen and her daughter Jo, from the Roadhouse?"

Dean did remember—and was utterly shocked. "No way." Last time he'd seen Bobby and Ellen in a room together, they'd been at each other's throats. "How the hell did that even happen?"

Bobby shrugged, but there was a genuine smile on his face, a smile that said Ellen was the best thing to ever happen to him. "I moved in with them and I come here when he needs me." Bobby jerked his head to his right, at Crowley.

"How's Jo doing, anyway? Crowley said she had the flu."

"Crowley is sitting right here," said Crowley stiffly, and Sam mumbled an apology.

Bobby ignored the interruption. "Yeah, she'll be alright. Ellen just needed me to stay home with her while she ran the Roadhouse." His eyes when he looked at them were brimming with happiness, and though he didn't say anything sappy, Dean could tell he was berating himself for wanting to. "So how're you two doing? You ever track down that hunter?"

"Yep." Dean wished he had a drink just then. "We gave him what was rightfully his."

"Good," said Bobby darkly. He regarded Sam curiously. "I see you're Bonded again, though."

"Heh. Yeah." Sam jerked his thumb in a general direction over his shoulder. "Gabriel."

"Gabriel?" Bobby sounded incredulous as his gaze slid away from Sam, and Dean followed it to see the witch in question leaning against the table Pamela Barnes was sitting at. Dean didn't blame him—she was beautiful—but she didn't seem to be appreciating his advances. Bobby turned raised eyebrows back on Sam.

Sam laughed. "Yeah, I know. But he's not that bad."

Bobby looked doubtful, but he turned to Dean. "What about you?"

Dean pursed his lips for a second, bracing himself. "Castiel."

It was Crowley who interjected, "Castiel? You mean the demon Castiel?"

Now Dean _really_ wanted a drink. "Yahtzee."

"But that's impossible."

Sam spoke up, "Yeah, trust me, we've been down that road."

"No, I mean it's literally impossible." Crowley's expression was flat, deadpan; but there was a slight bulge to his eyes that gave away his shock. As though self-aware of this, he took on a smoother, more casual demeanor and explained, "See, a Bond is the melding of two souls. That isn't just sappy poetry. I mean, literally, that is what it is. Two souls" he interlocked his fingers as an illustration, "bind together."

Dean, who didn't want to hear twenty thousand ways of explaining how two souls Bond, said expectantly, "Okay, and?"

Crowley cast a look in Bobby's direction and Dean was abruptly reminded of a melodramatic teenage girl being unwillingly supervised by her mother. He got the sudden inclination that Crowley was holding himself back from saying something rude. "Demons don't have souls." When the three of them gave him quizzical looks, he rolled his eyes and elaborated, "When you die and go to hell for" he waved his hand dismissively, "whatever reason, you are tortured and eventually forced to torture others until your soul is warped and twisted and chipped away to the point that there is nothing left. Hellfire burns it away, and every blade you raise against another soul carves away a piece of yourself."

"That was surprisingly deep," Bobby remarked.

Crowley threw him a withering look. "I wasn't being metaphorical."

"How do you know so much about this, anyway?" asked Bobby, and Dean was wondering it too. He'd heard a lot of things about demons and even more about Hell, but nothing quite that extensive.

"I've had frequent chats with your friend Castiel and his mates. They're very happy to divulge the secrets of the place when they know you're headed there yourself."

It was a very morbid remark, and for a moment they all sat in sober silence, thinking over the implications of it. After a moment, Crowley stood abruptly and announced, "I'm going home. Got a big day tomorrow. Bobby?"

Bobby nodded at Sam and Dean. "I'll talk to you two more later. It was good seeing you boys."

"You, too, Bobby," they both said.

-x-

_Every flat surface inside of Bobby Singer's house was covered with some kind of paperwork. Most of it was files—personnel, police reports, witness testimonies… Every wall had some kind of photograph tacked up to it, usually accompanied by various information or accounts. Some were dusty and faded, some brand new. Dean didn't recognize any of the names or faces that he saw, but there were too many to absorb in one sitting._

_It turned out that Bobby had made a life of stalking hunters. He preferred to call it "knowing your enemy," which Dean supposed was fair enough—and pretty damn useful for all the other witches and things out there. If anyone had ever lifted a blade against a supernatural being of any sort, chances were Bobby had their name and number._

_Bobby gave them a handful of photos. "These're the most renowned witch-hunters of this generation," he'd said gruffly. "Take a look. Your guy might be in there."_

_He was. Both Sam and Dean could confirm that the man in the fourth photo down—however blurred the surveillance shot was—was the same man who killed Jess. Low-res or not, Dean would recognize those eyes anywhere, and he didn't doubt Sam would agree._

_Bobby revealed that the name of the hunter in question was Azazel. Unfortunately, he didn't know the current whereabouts of "Azazel" and their first five attempts at using tracking spells failed, so he gave them a couple complimentary beers and told them where to find one of his friends, a reclusive conspiracy-theorist named Frank Devereaux who lived alone in a trailer and spent his days tracking people—hunters, civilians, your grandma's secret lover, you name it—via non-magical means. He was a genius, according to Bobby, even if he was just a few tinfoil hats away from a rubber room._

_Dean decided as they were leaving that he liked the guy. Rough around the edges he may be, but he seemed to have a soft center, at least for them. Kinda like a Twinkie._

-x-

They sat in silence for a moment, mulling over the conversation. Dean was tempted to try to make a joke, to distance himself as best he could from the fact that he was literally Bonded to someone who had no soul, but Sam looked deep in thought; the younger brother pursed his lips, clearly about to say something but not quite sure how to put it. Finally, he said to Dean, "Castiel seems to be trying really hard, Dean. You need to let him in."

_Well that came out of bumfuck nowhere._ "'Let him in'? What, are you crazy? I can't trust that guy."

"Yeah, and you're never going to if you don't start somewhere."

Part of Dean couldn't believe they were having this conversation, especially here. "You heard what Crowley said. He doesn't have a soul. I'm literally Bonded to a soulless demon. A _demon,_ Sam. With _no soul._ How am I supposed to trust that?"

Sam adopted a patient tone. "You don't know that. Crowley said that a Bond is a melding of souls, so maybe Castiel has a soul somehow."

"Oh, yeah, maybe he's just misunderstood. I'll just let Rudolph the Red-Nosed _Demon_ fly my fucking sleigh."

"All I'm saying is that he's different, and you should give him a chance."

"He killed a guy, Sam!" As soon as the words were out of Dean's mouth, he knew they sounded weak. Of course he killed a guy, he was a _demon_ for shitting out loud.

Sam seemed to follow his exact same line of thought. "He's a demon, Dean, I'm sure he's killed lots of people," he sighed wearily.

Suddenly, despite his stubbornness, Dean felt very foolish. Castiel was a demon and had probably been killing people ever since he'd crawled his way topside. Who was Dean to expect him to quit his bad habits within two days of knowing him? Anyway, the guy had saved his life, and Dean realized he'd never really properly thanked him for that.

"Just—trust me on this, okay? You won't get anywhere by closing him off," said Sam.

Dean knew he should listen to his brother because he was speaking from experience—even if that experience was with a sweet, beautiful girl instead of a demon. He sighed heavily, supposing he should talk to Castiel. _No point worrying about it now, though. Castiel will still be around in the morning,_ he thought, his gaze wandering as Sam left his seat. _In the meantime…_ His eyes landed on Anna, who was watching him with an expression of mild interest, and he winked.


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: i'm not very confident about my characterization of gabriel but i gave it my best shot**

"So this guy's totally plastered, right, and I'm laughing my ass off because his boxers are halfway down his legs and he's screaming like a _maniac._ And behind him—" Gabriel couldn't suppress his laughter, "—behind him is a _donkey._"

Pamela, who'd been shaking with silent mirth, unclamped her hand from her mouth to speak in shocked delight. "You're shitting me! A donkey?"

"Yes!" Gabriel slapped the table, practically feeding off her mirth. "Yes, this fucking donkey, hell if I know where it came from, is just chasing this buckass naked guy, and he's running straight for me!"

Pamela was gulping in great breaths of air, hardly able to breathe for laughing so hard. "And you just met him that night?"

Gabriel nodded, his eyes alight, grin curling ever wider. Eventually Pamela was able to get enough breath back to ask, "So what happened after that?"

Gabriel made an unattractive gravelly noise attempting to hold back a laugh as he remembered the next sequence of events. "Okay, okay, okay, remember—" he stopped to straighten himself and continued in a smoother tone, "—remember the drag queen from earlier that night? The one that tried to get him to—?" He didn't bother finishing, since Pamela was nodding already, rapt with attention, "Well—" he could barely get words past his grin, "—we didn't have our phones, and I had no idea where my car was, and this fucking donkey was chasing us—"

Pamela's eyes blew wide in disbelief. "You _called_ the _drag queen_?"

Gabriel nodded again, rapidly. "It was the only number we had on hand! We streaked to the nearest payphone and dialed, we didn't care who answered!" Pamela's hand fixed itself around her mouth again as barely-contained guffaws shook her shoulders. "So—" Gabriel had to wait a few seconds to make sure she could hear him. "So basically, that's how we ended up naked in the back of a van with a drag queen."

The hilarity of the conversation eventually died down to vague giggling and Gabriel was able to sip at his daiquiri again. It was almost empty.

"I really need to tag along on one of your adventures one of these days," said Pamela a little wistfully, still grinning ear-to-ear. "I swear you make up half the stuff you tell me."

Gabriel smiled in that wily way that only he could. He certainly had a knack for making things up on the fly, but that story happened to be true—what he neglected to mention was that he still had the drag queen's number in his contacts. He was a lovely guy, really; he went by Dennis during the daytime and fixed up cars for a living.

Pamela was eyeing him coyly, and he could only wonder what she was thinking. She was the only person in the bar—probably ever—who wasn't a witch or familiar; but since she was one of the best psychics in the country, nobody really cared. Her eyes flicked up over his shoulder in a meaningful way, and he followed her gaze to see that it had landed on Sam, now sitting alone at a table with a beer in hand. _Oh, shit,_ thought Gabriel. He looked like a kicked puppy, for fuck's sake. Sure enough Pamela remarked, "You haven't said a word about him all night."

As soon as Gabriel had left Sam standing in the back room with that lost look on his face, he'd known he'd have to apologize for something. But if there was one thing he was good at, it was not thinking about things. He'd kept it in the back of his mind, opting instead to go out and get drunk and have a good time and maybe spend the night with Pamela. "His name's Sam. He's tall."

Pamela smiled. "I noticed." Her eyes wandered over to Sam again. "He's got a nice ass, too."

Gabriel made a noise of absent agreement, slurping up the last bit of his daiquiri.

"I mean it, though, who is he? I've always wondered what kind of man it'd take to Bond with you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Gabriel asked indignantly, his voice squeaking a little. Pamela just smiled again and quirked her eyebrows expectantly. Damn her for seeing though his diversion. He shrugged. "He's more the… strong silent type. Ridiculously smart. Really naggy. But he's got a big heart." He decided not to mention that Sam had been Bonded before; that was something he doubted the familiar would want on the grapevine.

Pamela studied Sam for a moment. "I'm guessing… dog?"

Gabriel grinned. "Picture the biggest, shaggiest, most bearlike dog you've ever seen."

Pamela's lips curled into a warm smile at that; it faded after a moment, however, and she said, "You should talk to him." Gabriel started to splutter some excuse, but Pamela shook her head seriously. "Don't think I can't see what's going on here, Chachi. That boy is worried about something and I'll be damned if you're not the cause of it."

He relented under her cool, narrow-eyed stare, sighed, "Fine," and stood up, taking his empty glass back up to the bar. Balthazar made him a second daiquiri and he sauntered back to where Sam was still sitting, alone. "Hey, bucko." He slid into the seat across from Sam, who looked up from his beer in mild surprise.

"Did Pamela toss your drink in your face?" asked Sam in a bemused tone, casting a glance across the room at her.

"What, can't a guy talk to his familiar just because he wants to?" countered Gabriel. Sam gave him a skeptical look, and he briefly hung his head in resignation. "Fine, you got me. She sent me over here to talk to you."

Sam glanced at her again, this time in confusion. "She—?"

Gabriel waved his hand dismissively. "Psychic. She knew something was up. Anyway—" He took a sip of his drink before sitting up straighter in his seat, doing his best to cast away the jokes and distractions and focus on what he was supposed to be doing. "I want to… talk." He tended to hesitate a lot when he was broaching something he didn't want to touch. "About earlier."

Sam quirked his eyebrows coolly. "You mean when you told me you murder people and then acted like you didn't care when I said I was worried?"

"You really know how to make a guy feel like a million bucks, huh?" Sam continued to gaze evenly at him as he took a pull of his beer, and Gabriel was vividly reminded of the similar exchange he'd had with Pamela only moments ago. He sighed heavily. Sam was not going to make this easy, he could tell—not that he had any right to. Gabriel had a habit of putting his foot in his mouth and then not adequately apologizing for it. "Look, kiddo, I'm really sorry about what I said, okay?" He was kind of deciding on his opinion as he spoke, since he'd spent so little time thinking about it beforehand. "It was rude and inconsiderate and…" He trailed off, not really coming up with any other adjectives that accurately described it and not really wanting to. Sam, who seemed to know that he wasn't quite finished yet, remained patiently silent, though his eyes definitely looked softer, Gabriel concluded, and he could already sense forgiveness hovering at the other end of the Bond. He made a spur-of-the-moment decision that he felt was the right one: "I'm gonna stop. For your sake. Stop taking jobs which involve murdering people, I mean."

Sam looked surprised at the offer. "You'd do that?"

Gabriel shrugged, only half-aware of what he was giving up. "Sure I would. You're my familiar, right? I'm stuck with you for the long haul, so we're gonna have to make compromises."

Sam nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "Thanks." After a second, a suspicious look crossed over his face. "You didn't say all that just to get in Pamela's pants, did you?"

Gabriel leaned back in his seat. "Pfft, nah. Been there, done that." Even so, he couldn't help thinking how ridiculously well the kid knew him already.

Sam gave him a cynical half-smile. "You've never even seen under her shirt, have you?"

Gabriel's nonchalant expression faltered, and he thought, _That's just uncanny._

Sam, who apparently heard the silent remark, laughed, which made Gabriel feel marginally better. He decided that he liked it when he made Sam laugh. The lines of his smile were in all the right places. "Hey, don't wait on me. Go tell her you made nice and maybe you'll get lucky."

Gabriel could sense something growing in Sam, an emotion that ran like the soft current of an underground creek. It felt something like curling up in a patch of sunlight or sipping hot chocolate after a long day in the snow. His confidence bolstered, he stood, gave Sam a little bow, and said, "Sam, you're a true gentleman."

Sam just continued to grin as Gabriel grabbed his drink and headed back on over to Pamela.


End file.
